The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2020

along the spine of the coast. But I’d take strong coffee. I forgive Wyoming her expansive sky, I forgive her because she hums in mesa, a lullaby with the pine-hill. I forgive her frozen hashbrowns and canned beef because these, too, remind me of home. No one’s ordered tea in this place in a long time. The honey packets are curling in on their edges, and black like candles left in the junk drawer just in case, then dug out as a prize and offered. I’m grateful at least for clovers and bees, what they can give to my body. And the road is there, and you are here inside me. The Meadow 39