Unpastoral
by Hannah Smith

A scorpion, a copperhead, a sacahuista shrub in the foothills. A prickly pear 
nearly flowered, its bulbs of dirty pink pushing through the pores 
of its arm. A dusty toe box. An alligator-skin boot. A spur that spins 
with no wind at all. A cattle ranch and its Angus beef. Hoofmarks
pressed into dry clay. Bellows. Bells swinging 
from necks thickened with things not pasture-grown. Their bodies
blending to one mass. The drive down the valley. My chapped 
lips. My ass sore on the second day. My hair, its knots, and the ends
stiff from dried sweat. My breasts tender. My body 
bouncing. A horse beneath me that bucked 
something sinful when we crossed a stream too deep
to see bottom. A freefall. A lightning storm. An impulse towards ground. 
My mother in a kitchen. Her mother at the oven. Their hands buried 
in mitts. My sister between them. The window open. The heat. The meatloaf 
too dry. The fat collecting. The spatula that scrapes it straight 
into the dog’s bowl. The stain on an apron. The spoons 
in a line. The ceramic dish painted with wildflowers. A poppy, 
some thistle, the pink evening primrose. The windchimes in the yard 
like a calling from home. 

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Hannah Smith is a writer from Dallas, Texas. She is an MFA candidate in poetry at the Ohio State University, where she is the Associate Managing Editor of The Journal. Her poems appear in Meridian, North American Review, and are forthcoming in Nimrod and Superstition Review.