Omro, WI
because I cannot get over the shape of her complaint—
pea-sized in the mouth of a bottomless yawn,
stuck in between the teeth of despair
perfectly timed between laundry and supper.
To summon the spring out of the frozen ground,
my friends and I drive two hours north.
4 miles into a cornfield, we reach the end
of the world and strike a pose for posterity.
A mother of three has thought of everything
we could ever need and we contemplate,
periodically, of never leaving. Just in case,
I tuck the sun in my pocket before bed.
The neighbors eye our unruly bodies
and we swat at their gaze like flies.
We think of burning things, but then we don’t.
We line the glass bottles up like convicts.
As we prepare for our small apocalypse,
I pull Jenny aside in the iced coffee aisle and say
In another life, I’d be okay with being a stay-at-home mom,
and the voiceover, as if God, cackles in approval.
When your world is the distance between
Walmart & Church it becomes a prayer:
In the name of the Father & of the son. Again & again.
What is the width of your shoulders but sin?
On the way back to city life
we pass a town of 1,603 people.
I blink once and don’t remember its name.
I blink again and consider it does not have one.
