by Jake Maynard
I need to see the prairie before it burns.
Behind the mounds of bison skulls. Fear
of something never seen. My goodness.
Swollen belly. Her smile behind the door.
She said, you brood too much for fatherhood.
Who knew? Me. The future is a myth.
A window to lean against. The window breaks.
It should be raining—but it’s not.
Zipped warm in my father’s leather jacket;
The worst thing is when someone sees through you.
Wind roils the panicgrass, wind does
what wind does, what wind does,
what wind does,