Mennonite
in Fog
Night in
my windshield, safety lights corona:
Warning
- warning - watch
She is
here.
Bicycle
wheels cleft the rainy road
Like
chalk on blackboard,
Spray
muddy water onto her skirts,
Dirt that
no washboard can get out.
In Pennsylvania country, she pedals for Christ.
Hot June
rain melts the sky, gravel, and grass together,
Fences,
then farms
Smoky
clouds funneling in the fields.
I, in my
car, and she, on her bike,
As if we
travel together through a land of volcanoes
And we
are melting too, covered in ash.
When I
pass, she is a black ghost,
White
blond hair waving from under her cap.
Headlights
blind my eyes in the rearview:
Warning
- warning - watch
She is
here.
We share
the same freckles, knobby knees,
Smiles
that are a bit too much,
Boyfriends
in suspenders,
Grandmothers
who died before we could learn their vernacular.
We grow
the same Valerian and purple coneflower.
Divided
by clothing, and Christ!
All I can
do is purchase orange tomatoes at her stand.
There are
no clear lines in the fog.
There is
no clear path in the street.
Nothing
is clear in the place where the grass and gravel meet.
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