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
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