Sounds like leaving
Blue island of landing strip
the only night light acceptable
in Lutheran fields
patchworked by day
in soybeans and corn,
pious in their plaid utility.
Beveled earth is the
staid corduroy yoke of history,
waves of no water
while young men throw
down their Budweisers
to shatter in defiance of nothing
in parking lots, in pickups
chains across all the old doors.
Silos lean into a different wind
that sounds like leaving,
a motor hum growing silent
with each further hill.
Dust dances like a devil.
It always does.
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Author's Note
Thanks to the nice folks at Leveler, who published this poem and provided a fascinating analysis of it.
Other stories by Sara Fitzpatrick Comito
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Ghost town's a'coming. I see it, hear it, feel it, know it. *
Silos lean into a different wind
that sounds like leaving,
a motor hum growing silent
with each further hill.
Dust dances like a devil.
It always does.
Feels like the beginning of another poem.
Fav. **
Nicely written. *
Textured, lovely*
Dust devils indeed.
Especially like the Buds- empty, I presume- thrown in defiance of nothing.
Fascinating ending.*
* ,Sara. I'd love to see this in a series of painting panels because of the unique, rural imagery you used.
"Beveled earth is the / staid corduroy yoke of history"
Outstanding!
Waay good piece, Sara. A tight narrative with striking images & metaphors. Very powerful in esp.: "while young men throw
down their Budweisers
to shatter in defiance of nothing"
Thanks, all! David, I'd love to see that too. I appreciate everyone's comments on this piece.
***Gorgeous.
Super-rich writing, deep and textured *
Nonnie and Foster, thank you.