On a clear day in Adair County, all the sounds
fit into boxes. There was a room for squares.
What if we weren’t meant for thinking outside
boxes but inside spirals? Lines are not meant
to contain our emptiness.
On a clear day in Adair County, all the horses
disappeared. Just the apples they had been fed were left.
When I finally found the house, it wasn’t a fence
that kept me from entering, but broken steps.
When I finally found the room, it wasn’t ropes
that kept me from entering, but broken furniture,
discarded appliances, rusted coffee cans.
I stood behind the layer of detritus and let the melancholy
greet my excitement. I was tempted to take the room and
divide it into grids, like the ornate linoleum, but the
ghosts told me I needed to hold open the door,
separate my hope from sadness and return with a
breeze when the curtains speak.
