C.S. CARRIER

 

 

                      Fields blazon amber, corn. Crossroads arise here.  

                      I live hard water, dead trees. I live the skyscraper’s two white antennas.    

Antennas are white here. 

 

                      Friends, your shimmering eyes, kitchens’ ripe vegetables, breads, crafts. 

                      How your hearts glugged wine. How your hearts leaned to me. And I away. 

 

                      Not-so-secret: I’ve struggled to make friends. Not not-so-secret: I’ve struggled to live without 

regret about it. I almost wrote “shame,” not regret. Shame’s what I have after. 

 

                      Indiana like a sock. 

                      Corner breweries, highway neighborhoods, rotten river sores. Indiana has a     

problem, pesticides washing dreams, mouths. 

                      Indiana, white bone. 

                      Invasive shrubs, armed hips. Indiana has a problem abusing opioids, people 

already born. 

 

                      I remember you, find the typewriter. I braid a string, foam the light. 

                      I think you through this place. 

 
                      My house, green, crowning a period, death blood, sewage barrel. 

                      Neighbors walk dogs, tow carts, scatter belongings. Sometimes they scream, 

their phones chatter back. 

                      Sometimes their cars rattle too much. And I wish my thoughts could dissolve 

them, their alibis. 

                      My house has a secret. I don’t know what it is. 

                      My house eats money. 

 

                      My feet sizzle the floors, my eyes the sky blue clouds, helicopters. My fingers 

sizzle images, drum keys. My words sizzle pop the air, its ethers. 

                      I brandy cider to keep warm. 

 

                      Dear Ones, 

                      How do I tell you I love you? Easy. 

                      The question is another. How do I build our house so it doesn’t fall down? 

Also, how do I build it from here? 

                      Can I just remember? Do I call, write? Do I ask questions? Admit feelings? 

                      Do I say: Hello, I’m Indiana now. How are you?