Sunday, June 18, 2017

small poem to fill an empty page

summer of ’92, before the
flood, before the abortion, before she
tells me whose baby it is

a rusting trailer at
the edge of a cornfield

buzz of cicadas, neverending rumble of
trains passing in the distance and she says her
husband ignores her or
he yells at her

says he hasn’t fucked her in
almost three years
doesn’t even hit her anymore and
what we’re waiting for is winter

the possibility of escape that
never becomes a reality

the inevitable future
which is only ever a less hopeful
version of the defeated past

No comments: