The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2018

The Dust Blows Out of Darkness Ripe as Corn Kathleen Hellen 1. My hair in braids like sweet grass, reeking in the stubble of a cornfield, in the “gee-whiz” arches of St. Louis gilt with mushrooms in motels, sprouting brujos , the tantric sex of double-beds, the decibels ascending. “Can you dig it?” My fingers calling out the talking tiles, “I’ll get a job tomorrow.” I caught a ride going anywhere I wanted—when I was young, dumber than the road kill, no other purpose but undoing the Chevy Nova leaking oil. When I was young, the world was just a blind spot. Hello, Needles. 2. Hello, Long Beach. Someone moved the farm to the Spahn. Someone spiked the trip with strychnine. Stole my suitcase… hell is helter-skelter selling the subscriptions door to door. Running in flip-flops. Witnesses with pamphlets. “Go Fish.” They said, “Stay away from Okies.” “Stay away from swabbies busting bottles off the rail.” “Don’t bug Carlos.” I believed it when they said, “Things ain’t what they seem.” The Meadow 205