Your anger arrives on the back of a train
Arrives in my yard. The neighbor’s grass too long, and the city getting interested
I polish your anger as I polish a necklace, silver woman on a string
The city leaves my neighbor a letter. Inside her grown son sleeps
I thought: if I had been a son, someone would have taught me how to repair what I have broken
As it is I polish, take a hammer to your anger to make it my anger, make a silver woman a string
My neighbor’s son wants to sleep forever. And grass the slow passage of time
I want to sleep, but I am too embarrassed by our anger. How it is always arriving too early, always announcing itself
If I had been a son, I would have been given a holster
No one forgives grass for growing. I forgive the grass for being grass
- Freight - August 31, 2020
- A Review of Traci Brimhall’s Come the Slumberless to the Land of Nod - May 18, 2020
