November/December 2023

The stairs collapsed beneath her and as she fell, she prayed for her body not to be seen, not painted by a brush, she saw the sun, then the moon, nighttime descended as splinters of wood flew into her eyes, poured out of her mouth, sinking past an assortment of floating objects— a banjo is her head, her torso is a Picasso painting, her legs are brooms, sweeping the air, her arms are cut-up cloth. Curious eyes peek over the crumbling banister, which a disembodied yet still whole hand holds on to, but soon the skin peels away, leaving only bone, which also disappears—everything is still and dark, alone and quiet, somewhere the nude is still falling.

Through the afternoon In a blue Honda Fit In toward the wind farm We shall go. As the wind turbines spin In the afternoon wind Shadows on the ground Like a fidget. In the high winds You feel like you can touch it But cannot Car shadows go. Spinning shadows Of the turbines Night and Day Out in the plains. Glow of the farm Of the sunlight Beating down The wind farm spins. Through the wind farm We shall go The sun goes down Driving toward Illinois. Spinning turbines In high winds The shadow spins On the highway. Spinning very fast Fast as you go The wind shall blow Is how the turbine goes.

Trees instead of poles Mountains instead of buildings Rivers instead of roads Boulders instead of cars Flowers instead of litter Grass instead of stores Forests instead of parking lots Sunsets instead of smog Oceans instead of cities Lakes instead of concrete Dolphins instead of ships Meadows instead of machines Mechanical things devour the earth like a fox hunts a rabbit, making their own islands while crumpling the world to pieces. The moon stares down upon us with love. The trees give us their shade with kindness while all we see is an ax. The earth is not a huge clump of metal. We must see it in a different way, like the beauty it is. That’s the world we should be. That’s the world we should see.