In a Town of 13,000
by Emily Younkin
in a town where the children
peel laminate from the windows of school buses
and ask god for the same forgiveness
because no one believes here
but in pretense…
in a town where the birds
gather in a singular yard
with four fat squirrels
because the seed collects itself
under one golden tree and no others…
in a town where the mothers
shackle their fates to reputation
and leak repulsive tears at night
because the cars passing by
shine headlights into empty rooms…
in a town where the fathers
are ocean tides and overworn ties
who forgot how to dream when they were 16
because someone asked them to jump
and they couldn’t move their feet…
in a town where the cars
gnarl themselves into knots
around trees they wish to be
because the radio station still plays
even after destruction…
in the town where I sit
on a wide flat rock illuminated bright
sheltering in an enclosed circle of woods
because roads bellow in every direction
and nothing speaks here but the crows…
in that town I learned how to listen.