The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2020

Honey Packets, Coffee, Wine Sherre Vernon 1700 miles, too much grassland. How rarely I wish by the desert, but today I’d give anything: an observance of Joshua, a pride of violent red stone. In every truck stop bathroom, by the etched mirror, the split linoleum, I’ve been checking. Another drug store pregnancy test in tight cellophane. That first pink cross, a signal to turn the car around, each successive a confirmation. Through the windshield a terror, a pillar of twining smoke. I know nothing of heartland weather but everyone drives right toward it. A semi honks twice and low. We’re all trying so damn hard to keep you alive. I want a hot soak. A glass of wine. The sea breaking and howling 38 The Meadow