by Natalie Dunn
I should have planted flowers in this yard. The packet of seeds from the corner store
that promised. There is something to this April not just in the green hill
but the smell of wet dogs, the saccharine tree. When I was young I drew maps
of what I couldn’t see: the distance between two cups on the table, the way the winter
stayed in my hair. Today, I read the weather out loud so we can expect when to lose
the sun. Today when we drive over the red bridge we will speak of your mother. It’s true,
sometimes I wish I was yours when your mouth latches my small breast. I think often
of the girl who sucked on stones in the playground. They claimed she had a deficiency,
I knew she could teach me about desire. I want to look at you again like a stranger
in my house. To write my name out in sticks. To make a nest of stones.
Natalie Dunn's work has been published or is forthcoming in The Believer, Kenyon Review, Conduit, The Normal School, and elsewhere. She has received support from the Community of Writers and the Hedgebrook foundation.