A farmhouse in South Dakota made of the dreams of cattails blows away a little
each day. Each summer the neighboring cottonwoods burst and cling like the hopes of
angels and that house gets a second chance, but soon even your fingernails grow tired of
scraping at the earth for a life, the bull’s heart behind your stove-door chest gives up
giving anything but blood.
Prairie dreams sail down the rows of corn beneath the salvation of a crop-duster.
Silence speaks again, as fine as the map you imagined made of squirrel hair and seedpods.
In that world inside the world, we live in bodies, a slow dance under the eyelids.
Sometimes we die before we die.
The voice inside the bread whispers about shadow milk for the children of chairs,
about fathers grumbling down the years like clumsy beasts. Just before dawn opens once
more, the smell of wet stones edges the dark and the latent breath of dew opens a
happiness bright enough to welcome something unknown.
All our lives here we build this, body by sweaty body, the landscape imperfecting
beauty, dethroning it to keep it real, as if the moment were repeatable, as if the moment
lived on, after we’re gone.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.