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 yearsdoesn’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
hopefulversion of the defeated past
No comments:
Post a Comment