Middles

In the equinoxes of falling asleep I think of fear, and blue static makes lakes of my dreams, and waking I am cut by blinds and know I am alive.

And the old wars were like brackish clashing in old paintings, spilling life into each other’s arms. And they were like sports teams, red and blue.

And leaving Evans, Georgia, where the water tower rose a second moon and we were strangers, a subdivision waited in the west.

And at a fast food counter sit a host of blinking lunch-breakers, and some of them are wearing silk pajamas.

And I was born and burrow deep into the belly middles with generations following as swift as rabbits.

Drew Rupard holds an MFA in poetry from Brigham Young University. She is interested in mythmaking, the American landscape, and ars poetica. Drew currently lives in New York.