Friday, May 26, 2023

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