Folks would talk about it, and even after I lived in that mountain town months, a year, even after getting close with the girl from the pharmacy, guys from the woods, I did not know. I waited to somehow divine what it was. Be invited. Still I imagine a great expanse, a meadow, high above the town, of tiny flowers, like lovers on their backs, looking up.
Copyright © 2017 Jill Osier. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Summer 2017.