There, we are wordless, there

Rachel Janis

Somewhere, there are unpaved roads, still. Somewhere,

I spy with my little eye a sliver of forever: the windmill

a giant cutip swabbing up the sky. Power lines threading

air, stitching us in. Cows scaling hills like they left
the womb sideways.

Somewhere, turn signals speak Morse code in

the dark. It’s five o’clock somewhere. We are wordless somewhere.

God wears a hood somewhere: a dog will eat someone’s life

savings, a woman will jump at a piece of string,

a man will wear a hazmat suit to bed, a cousin once-removed

will turn twice-revived but he will not want it bad enough.

A man will ask, “Were you born yesterday?” A newborn

on the other side of the world will dribble and spit up a response.

A man will ask, “Are you insane?” and a perfectly-sane

man with a knife will say, “No, I’m dicing onions.”

A woman will buy a frame with a pre-loaded picture

of a grinning boy. She will brag to the neighbors

that she’s a mother, finally.

Two boys will rob a video store barefoot.

A hot storm will run them down like in the movies.

We are plucked like untuned harps.

Everywhere, the Earth will shed its skin inwards.

Everywhere, we will be uprooted only to be planted again.

Somewhere, it’s five o’clock somewhere.

There, we are wordless there.