April 3rd, 2024
Soft earth, she is full of this world’s richness. Thick, black blood runs rivers beneath a desert, she has no need for other-wordliness. Endless fields to eat from and to graze — corn, wheat, sugar, barely, oat, turned into bushels of abundance — there is no church in her that goes without bread. And though she has enough inside her, there is no country she forgets. She wants more. Dark foreign hands work through her knots, all for the sweet promise of home. Home will come to those who sweat on her steel, and mix rubber with tarmac to connect all her parts; a long Pacific expanse curves across her side. She is so audacious, so hungry, that if her jagged Eastern edges slip into the Atlantic, she will send angry waves across the world.
April 2nd, 2024
Two months after February closing in on the gap between a memory of dry lips and wet hair you come and visit again car, rain, crash
There is a growing space between that winter month and you, and me your face is more perfect, less blue rounder, rested and flush your hair has not been drenched by rainwater no tints of purple across your lips no rain, no car, no crash no tears at home
You are a sleeping fairy, far away from spring
I would like to see you you again when the leaves turn young