A storm, then, can mean only ruin.
First, May floods the plains,
then June scorches the buffalo
grass and uncovers the bone
piles. I brave the heat in a silk shirt
patterned with lemons to walk the block
and buy Old Milwaukee six-packs,
Double Doubler scratch-offs. In Bellevue,
Nebraska, salvation is scarce. I’m dreaming
of foreign lands where humidity clings
to walls, makes the paint feel still wet,
where English means Christ and credit
cards, and where a learned language
prevents a dusty nightstand from meaning
alone. People are aware of sadness
through the body, not through language,
Skyler tells me. I’d always thought
the undergrowth looked like the forest’s jade beard –
I know now the vines reach not for sun,
but to choke at their hosts.
– for Skyler Johnson
“Light Box Body – Scream” image by Flickr user Luca Rossato
–
Charles Nutter Peck is from Omaha, Nebraska. He enjoys cheap bourbon and a good nap.