by Alyssa Froehling
an alone so new I could split my lip
talking to it. off the highway, purgatory,
east of iowa. just one field exists now,
unnamed. before, I thought there were two: with
& without. nothing above but a billboard:
if you died right now,
I walk through grass in a shell of gold nobody,
down into green delirium. a no one, until a naked
bird at my feet, tangled in thistle. swollen
like butcher meat wrapped tight in plastic,
& downed skin toxic to touch. corpse small
enough to make the size of my hands cruel.
as if it can still promise a second try,
its own rare world, I ask a dead thing
where would you go?
This poem first appeared in Nashville Review.