by Trina Burke
It’s Wednesday. At one thousand and one
she says she’s running out.
To begin with, a horse, Sahara, a name and a place wherefrom and far.
The fence wire that penetrates her shoulder as she, startled, trips into it.
A disaster a day for a week.
Swamp bugs covering it all with a hum or an Om.
Trees saturated with rain split in two, felled with the force of Babe the Blue Ox.
I’ve watched live footage.
I might swim to the rescue and fail every time.
That infanticide should even be a word.
The most surprising way to enter a house uninvited
is through the front door.
Just as mundane and pattern-oriented as
bohemian life. I’m not made that way.
A creature fished out of your abdomen as you lie prone.
Just drink the evening away with phallic
pictographs etched into the wood
for company. That smell?
Rot-gas, trapped in the alley out back.
Piss and chicken. People.
The most unexpected way to leave is to stay.
A stranger might stop
a girl in a parking lot swinging
a gallon of milk. Tell her
she’s “absolutely beautiful.” Ask her
if she has a car.
God, just let me rest.
Read Trina Burke’s “July”
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