Heartland
       

You want me to have faith,
but there's a dog under your porch,
a stray dog and he's dying.
You tell me names of gods I do not recognize
so I can blame them for my insomnia,
so you can blame them
for the dog who appeared with a limp
and trembled, who stumbled deep
beneath your deck to hide away.

I'm leaving for somewhere
because I've never been to Walla Walla
and you are praying for good news,
but the dog is a simple breath now
next to the food and water you left,
near the stair, next to the leap of cliff
you live by. The topic is not the overhang,
how far we have to fall, but closer—
how do we live when there is so much
dying?

The tomatoes are no longer growing
in the garden, instead their leaves are black.
There was a surprise cremation
of an evergreen wrapped with ivy
by a man with the axe.
And everyone knows someone
who is living with/dying from cancer
depending on your optimistic wording.

I am pouring myself a gravestone
of iced tea and going on a slow ride
down a long highway because everyone
is trying to keep this dog
alive, and what I can't take is another life
I couldn't save, and honestly,
I've never seen the heartland
or been to Walla Walla where
the onions are sweet
and you can drive by farm after farm
not knowing what skeletons
are buried deep within their fields.

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Copyright © 2021 Kelli Russell Agodon All rights reserved
from Redactions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission