Am I content or just used to cardboard boxes,
lined with photographs and paper maps that
tell secrets of the west?
Have I forgotten what it’s like to lie face down
inside tall green grass that sways to the side
when the wind sings us lullabies?
The hen house is filthy and I can’t recall
that last time you called me “Darling”,
and the bottle of asprin is empty and so is my mason jar.
I need to learn how to write in cursive,
with loops and twists and grace.
My ring is covered in lime dust, and my legs are covered in mosquitoes,
and I’m wondering when my eyes will open again.
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