Think of split-pelvis roadkill,

of wild straw­ber­ries smaller

than the width of your thumb,

think fried bologna, dry church

wafer, think Grizzly tins in jean

pockets, trac­tors in the parking lot,

think unbut­toned flannel and sports

bra, think of the creek mud-brown,

cutting through town, empty beer can

bobbing between meadowsweet,

bowed cat­tails. Think a fist full

of horsemint, boots filled

with hay—I don’t know how to tell you

about the train tracks without

men­tion­ing the girl who died there.

We only see gravel cars, grain

cars, graf­fi­tied where the train stops

long enough to look around and notice

the dead girl in the weeds, the dead deer

in the trees. We treat them equally,

why not put them together.

You want me to write about drugs,

because every small town

has a drug story, has people

who can’t escape the two main roads

they were raised on, so they find

another way. Stop writing about guns,

about girls, about blood in the fields.

Before I knew what track marks were

I matched wild straw­ber­ries to the scars

on my boyfriend’s arm. Before I knew

what meth did to teeth, I brought extra

tooth­paste to school because I thought

my friend didn’t have enough at home.

Mom says dad used drugs

when I was young, but stopped

when my sister was born. Be grate­ful

he’s only an alco­holic. Every­one here

is used to being poor, to scraping

their organs and gums to feel

any­thing other than the quiet

drone of the weathervane,

of their family waiting for them

to be some­thing other than what

they were. There’s a gravel pit

near a for­got­ten cemetery.

Think broken bottles, underaged

vomit, think ashes and tobacco spit,

of black mud and dis­card­ed tires,

coffins buried within earshot,

think lost shoe, ripped clothes,

think of the cracked lip, pelvis-split

blood. That’s where my dad

and my best friend’s dad hung out.

It’s where he would have told his son

to hang out but tells me to stay clear of.

I joke with my friend that if I was a man,

I would be a heroin addict. We laugh

and don’t know what it means until

we’re nearly thirty. I have a problem

with over­think­ing. There must

be a dif­fer­ence between loving someone

because you have to and loving them

because you need to. We place pennies

on head­stones and train tracks.

Wait for both to flatten.

Never good at being girls—lipstick

on our teeth, burned our stained sheets,

prayed to pinecones and lakes,

we often forgot to play the victim.

My friend punched her first boyfriend

so hard it made him gay, but he always

had been. I gave mine a con­cus­sion after saying

we could be friends even though we never

were. I don’t know how to prepare for kids.

How do I parent someone who won’t think

of the clap of a pistol when they hear

a screen door. Don’t let them be soft,

Dad says. Think tape on their cuts,

nights without meals. Think of

sleep­ing on the floor because the bed

wasn’t earned. I never understood

how people find themselves

by going on long hikes,

or climb­ing mountains,

swim­ming across oceans. 

Perhaps I’ve been running

for too long, I’ll never catch

her now, the self I’m supposed

to find, wher­ev­er she is—

Think bottom of the creek, broken

in the ditch, think overdosed

in an old friend’s basement.

Still bloated and pale, I hope

her eyes are open. What I miss

most about that small town

are the sunsets. Think firelight,

think pink-throat­ed sky, think

between her thighs, think gypsum

and laven­der, eye­bright, queen

anne’s lace. Think of us, piled

in truckbeds with spotlights,

ready to count the deer

we might kill tomorrow

after the corn­husks glow.