stretching on uneven ground, balanced
on a bed of molded apples, sharp wind
wafts the tart stench of rot
down our throats. this time, we try
for green pears, too. in a brown bag,
collecting a neighborhood
for fruitworms. comb through
the poor city planning,
bite into flesh that pops like gravel
under SUV wheels veered off-road,
engine stalling across from logging-rich
properties. we stand, pacificists between
our town and townies, watching as
the lake drinks the sun, comfortable in
the same silence as yesterday, yesteryesterday––
the sun gets spit back up. we reminisce on
bus route between our three towns. here,
a bingo card for the potholed safari:
1. dead deer hung on front porch clotheslines, cold fur bristled in morning chill.
2. MAGA-wallpaper on molded vinyl siding,
3. chicken wire killing chickens,
4. tractors rusting, rusted taps on tapped maples,
5. nailed maples signed: open to hunting.
little kids come forth from
the corner store, crested goat farm,
cow meadow junkyard, whispery corn field,
ice rink unfrozen into pond. here,
a step-by-step for how we can learn
love for where we’ve come from:
sweep under the rug the
1. boy saying he’ll bring a gun to school,
2. friend unfolding a knife in the library, bored
3. teenagers making self-harm blood pacts on a balcony,
immortalize the
4. science teacher raising chickens in the closet.
5. 4x drive to the airforce base,
6. crust of dusty flattop hills
7. thai restaurant that replaced the thai restaurant,
8. language of home,
when the methhead
walks up to the Dairy Queen window,
I am so scared I see
the whole world in her eyes,
I am so scared we see
the whole world in this town.
come over with fear, we
smoke weed like eulogy.
comforts of our universe,
we say, cheesing
like the moon.
we force our bodies between beauties of
branches, berry bushes, heifers,
sap-soaked skin. tell ourselves
we are free-willed, that choice is
a gateway drug to seeing there is a
world of good
here, too.
there are
just conditions
to comfort.