Dead Battery Contestant
2 Minutes Read Time
No one can hide a body here.
A hawk’s insistence. Someone. Thresh it. Get rid of these thoughts about
the body.
An orange sky unfolds a wheat field in the middle of nowhere.
I’m a hide-and-seek girl without service.
A person is a series of happenings.
Seek and what I find is a guy stops his car behind mine, and when I get out, he pulls a ten-inch knife out of his boot to see if he can help find the source of the issue.
A hawk loops a lie, a hover, and her kill is to wait not plead.
My thoughts are paper dolls holding tight and tighter until they rip.
The sky drips with the inside of brain, curled and colorless.
What I want then is truth or at least a faint fiction writing faith all over a body.
I hop in this guy’s car to drive for help. I refuse to speak to him, and then scream, Go away.
I need no help unless you’re a saint with a knife because who isn’t helpless against a slate of steel.
A pressure to the neck could be a version of splitting bread for a good enough future give me this.
Prayer is a limp daisy hoping to meet water.
Domestic strains, mutant plans, wheat, and the belief that weather is God are all we talk about in what’s open, rainless.
Choose what covers, red barn or red dress or me in the field covering the dirt.
Be that cow with stained eyes for a set dream, drowsy statue driving to a depth of pure trust.
The sky as a masterpiece to stall all. A cow is a series.
Read more from Issue 15.1.
