Fall 2013: Issue 94

Corrie Lynn White

When I say you are, you is more

than one. The English language knows

I am looking at a river, a string of rail cars,


a field of what’s wild. When I say

hold on, the road will turn to gravel;

your muscles won’t soften. When I say


you are calluses against cast iron,

the shut bedroom door, I am looking

through the keyhole. You are pacing past


my only light, looking out closed

windows. It’s cold: could you hurry up?

When I say the bottle’s open;


go pour a glass, you slide the black bottoms

of your feet into the kitchen. My dusty floor

might stick to your feet when I say


let’s dance. When I say hush, the crickets

thicken. Home isn’t where you leave it.

When I say you are, God knows


one isn’t enough: that hope

gleans heaven here and there

like a girl gone to gather.