The Fracturing
BeforeRepressed Memories Resurface, April 2017
Before I fracture,
Before I fracture,
I am pastures of butterweed,
the silence of river bottoms,
gravel roads to so many nowheres,
and the howl of a Tuesday siren.
I am the indigo sky that creeps
over the Baptist church on the hill.
I am Amish buggies on covered bridges.
Country dust. A crow.
I am the curtain of humidity before rain
and the silvered floodwaters
that comb through the furrows
of fresh-tilled fields.
I am a calm so still
the crepe myrtle trembles.
the crepe myrtle tremb
the crepe myrtle tremb
After I fracture,
the crepe myrtle trembI am cleaned buckets—
the crepe myrtle trembclenched cunts—
the crepe myrtle trembmarijuana and vinyl
the crepe myrtle trembfloors, checkered—sticky. Sticky.
the crepe myrtle trembFaux wood steering wheel,
the crepe myrtle trembno seatbelt—open garages—
the crepe myrtle trembshadows, rust, tin, tin, tin
the crepe myrtle trembu-turn in the yard—farmhouse.
the crepe myrtle trembLightbulb in the kitchen—
the crepe myrtle trembconcrete floor, ripped window screen—
the crepe myrtle trembno, army crawls in the snow—no,
the crepe myrtle tremba soft-mouthed
the crepe myrtle tremblitter of mutts.

 

Elliot LeGrange, an MFA candidate at SIUC, is the granddaughter of a mortician and was raised in a household where death was dinner table conversation. She has published in such places as Schlock!, Aphotic Realm, Lonesome October Lit, Mystic Blue Review, and Alcyone, among others. Visit her on Twitter @LJEngelmeier.
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