a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
the air is different here—crisp,
and the wind that only straightens,
and does not bend the spine,
does not smell of siphoned gasoline,
sloppy cigarettes, worms, and rotting
for them, those first and tardy ones
seeking refuge, seeking eden
in someone else’s world.
dour and starched and half-dead from the voyage,
did they challenge the branches to duels?
i cannot help but think of them—
their gaunt and waxen faces—those screaming
women with fevers and no mothers,
dying in the breach—
pilgrim: how the word has changed,
grown tawdry, disavowed.
i replace the pump and drive away,
still locking my doors.
when i told people where i was from, they winced
and asked if i knew michael moore
as one inquires whether an icelander
is acquainted with björk.
i was in the same room with him once.
a city of one hundred thousand
is just that small. i was sixteen
and wore a tight black dress— i think
he did not notice me.
i did not come alone to the gala
in the city that had been fired and shot
and low for years and not yet poisoned.
i did not leave alone.
my shadow held my hand, before
he reached for my throat.
they blew up the genesee towers in 2013,
my witching hour of a year,
and the street to me is as strange as the cities
of water and plastic in downtown backyards.
i know now that the problem lies deep,
a tangle of metal as old as ford’s promise
of five dollars a day.
half a thousand miles away,
in full sunlight, I carried my keys splayed,
the blades poking between my fingers,
and never forgot
to lock the door.