we drink porter with hershey kisses like at your wedding. the hay fires come up again in conversation, but we agree not to talk about it. that small town was our home. new year’s eve, and my brother keeps calling - like out in the barn where the lamplight flecked like drugs. we covered up our nakedness and shucked horses by the lemon trees soaking butter. you’d been married to him for almost six months. tomorrow we’ll hide the phone inside a box inside a dresser. take the batteries out. then drive to new country with kerosene and books of matches; let the hay colors twist, filling our sin round like peaches in a bowl.
Will Yarbrough
will-yarbrough.com
10:04
Ben Lerner