Stuck,
in the green hills—
alien and unforgiving—
I lap at the cornhusk that
I keep as a secret like
it is a backyard hose
and I am younger
Mother
Do you feel the rumble
of your husband’s secrets—
The glass in his heels, the
trailer parks he keeps
quiet He is quiet He is
not a remarkable man
Apocalypse, he tells me,
is imminent And he
would brave it with me
because I am his
only daughter
There is a rustle in
my cavity When I
poke it, I shine yellow
like a cornfield It pricks
the soft spot under my ear
like hay straw falling
I call you—
Mother Do you not
hear me, do you not
hear the earth that I
rake I know that it is
loud, it crackles, it is
not burning but it is
on fire
It carries the scent of
black heat scar tissue
Salt sky drips dry—
Do you hear it now
Mother
Or are you still
with the quiet of Texas
— the numb quiet of
the man who kept you
a secret He kept you
a secret even from me
I find a blister in
the space between
my knuckles— the
only hills that are
safe for me to touch It
is dry like wheatgrass I
itch the way summer does
where I come from—
bright Nebraska— I want
to hear the cicadas again
This—
Mother, I heard my brother
hiss like a cicada in a dark
gymnasium in sunny California
He didn’t look like your
husband He looked like you,
twisted like the burning sting
of nettles, pouring hot like
summer rain You know this
You know his silence—
the silence of these men,
our men, our mirrors You
see the crackle in them too
I know that you do and
when they grin it is
the sweep of a corn snake
When they lower their eyes
it is like the fire—
This is when I return to
cornfields and broken fences
Mother, This is when you
return to your silence and the
silence of the red canyon—
his lie stretched over the desert
driveway and a six-pack of
cheap beer— you return to his
bare knuckles and karaoke
You have been displaced
to the dry waves—
to the fire
I have been displaced
to the green hills,
false mountains
Mother,
you never told me that
we are not where we are
We are not comfortable