The Meadow 179 Anhedonia Jerrod E. Bohn Places we’d explore each roughed-out summer, a cottage full of broken glass weeds tangled around a stillborn piano. Songs told me rivers are only useful for murder baptisms or ballads. Tin shed hay dust stirs bullet holes rusting hazy sunlight swirls. A tangle of cobwebs taught me we all have tricks for keeping fed. Moon makes the dewy grass a starfield, fireflies lure us into thorny thickets to realize our hands remain tempted to grasp empty most days. Imagine all this from a patch couch that stinks of bodies whose unbathed impressions serve to chart hours where the ceiling is deep thought broadcast through mute radios walls echoing blank streams of our obituary’s evening.
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