Between the decaying doublewide
and the beast maw
of development lies
this last remnant of soil like home,
grey-edged and drying against
the encroaching green, a fermenting
pumpkin patch caught
in permanent dusklight
with a silhouette ever watching for what might emerge
from that space just above the western hills
From here I burrow into the mounds left
by last spring’s pair of steers
the occasional neighborhood dog,
open the tunnels to oxygen,
to putrefaction
as the sweet purple fringe fingers itself
free of the prickled calyx
From here I crawl through segmented snakeweed
until I reach the sea
of frogs who scream their song,
pleasing sound waves washing
the LOT FOR SALE sign
From here I can see the cars
pass through, the hiss
of tires on the asphalt an anxious
whisper and I count how much shit
I need to consume to offset
the poisons, nourish
the clay
Lindsey A. K. Appell is a writer and vermin enthusiast from rural Montana with an MFA in poetry and a collection of haunted dolls. You can read more of her poetry in ANMLY, Marrow Magazine, and Opal Age Tribune.
