POEM FOR ILLINOIS

EMILY PINKERTON

 
 

Spring. Snow still
on the ground, blended
with mud and twigs.
I drive past the bar
outside my old elementary school
and watch the light reflect
in the dull slush near the curb.
 

Old coal town, bland
as it is isolated.
Midwestern roots: nothing
to come back to. Leaving
is the same as staying
once the dust settles
on your skin. Flyover
without a thought and tongue
the residue.

 

 
 

∘∘∘