Issue 94 - Corrie Lynn White

by Corrie Lynn White

When I say you are, you is more
than one. The English language knows
I am looking at a river, a string of rail cars,

a field of what's wild. When I say
hold on, the road will turn to gravel;
your muscles won't soften. When I say

you are calluses against cast iron,
the shut bedroom door, I am looking
through the keyhole. You are pacing past

my only light, looking out closed
windows. It's cold; could you hurry up?
When I say the bottle's open;

go pour a glass, you slide the black bottoms
of your feet into the kitchen. My dusty floor
might stick to your feet when I say

let's dance. When I say hush, the crickets
thicken. Home isn't where you leave it.
When I say you are, God knows

one isn't enough: that hope
gleans heaven here and there
like a girl gone to gather.