by Adelina Rose Gowans
sure, we went bloat-eyed and buzzy
when the neighbors down rawl road waged
war with each other—christened their property
line the two-way gates of heaven and built
that barbed-wire fence to keep each other out,
but that’s old news.
the iga’s stocking dairy-free yogurt
now. dogs and coyotes keep going at it in ditches.
even the seraphim living down in the trailer
park bought a new american flag for their window,
six-winged bodies bursting with life
whenever the gamecocks pull through with the win.
you know what this is:
the departure and undeparture, ms mary asking how’ve
you been, honey and all the fresh-baked bread in the
county wrapped in wax paper
and baling twine.
i think i’m finally falling into like with the things i can’t
change. say blackwater. say deus ex machina. say glock 42
with bubblegum on the trigger.
on saturday the neighbors peeled a doe out
of the fence, first body of sacrifice,
and i recite every vacation bible school song
that makes me feel home-bodied.
still, the astounding lack of street lights
turns our night sky into a halfway heaven,
and i think about you every time i pass the sunflower fields.