Asking why on the White River, you tell me about the time you tried to kill yourself, dropping to the side of a California highway.
Later that night I’m spitting tobacco juice down the drain, remembering how I laid crucifix in the grass, touched it with trembling hands in triumph at the memory of a near six year drawl prophesying over me: the grass would never be greener.
Known only by the glow of cheap cigars I tell you why I won’t sing hymns. You tell me you were in love once. I ask myself how to know what it feels like and why time is a mechanism of middle grade clarity.
The spin and ache of hours draws truth from history, admissions staining the water in incantations of suffering. Nicotine behind my eyes, beneath my tongue like a rudder as I say to the sky I never wanted the grass.
I wanted what is now in front of me: tall trees casting silhouettes on black water.
Grace Willis is a student and poet from the Midwest, where she is pursuing a Master’s degree in English Literature. Willis has poetry published in Novus Literary Arts Journal as well as Roadrunner review.
