1.30.2004

Driving Ohio

We have no mountains
To dissect out evenings for us,
To peal off orange skins
Into darkness.

I thought our hills were something.
Driving west
I thought they were mountainous,
But we are just a pubescent girl’s chest,

Peeking up slightly
Into blue atmospheric fabric.
If we are David,
Our Goliath lies south and east,

Stretched vastly
Over a thick southern dialect,
His hand extended toward us.
Like cancerous lumps,

Our terrain is small and soft,
Built on soil, not on rock,
And when the floods come
We often fill up too quickly.

Given enough gravity,
We drown in our own shallowness,
Like hollowed-out toy soldiers
Left in the bathtub,

While the stripes of morning
Jump early into our unexpectant arms
Past the stubby knees
We thought would shelter us.

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