(what we wept for) by Nikki Allen
The cornfield is gone.
Our old neighborhood playground
of stalk and rows
turned into magician assistant–
cut in half;
disappearing dead end
now
a road
you go
through my memory
to leave.
The shutters on the house
they are a different color;
barns are soccer fields.
The interstate expanding
a new distance ridiculous–
the concept of home when you are
too busy trying to define
the word concept.
My red and white steel mill shout,
my favorite landmark between
anywhere and my grandmother’s house.
During the holidays
they erect one skinny star next to
thrust up flame never extinguished,
not even to daylight.
My candy cane sleeping in soot,
barbed arm fences raised,
the washed out turn when it rains hard–
(the roads barely change);
the weeds I’ve seen you yesterday,
oh grow-anywhere champions, please convince me of this
that it was just
yesterday.
How many towns have to die?
How many corners of before will tuck themselves in like this–
how many caved in monuments?
How can you mourn the certainty of things passing
when it feels awful and good all at once,
when you finally feel like a part of ’supposed to,’
and awareness will not halt inevitable process.
Nikki Allen is a 28 year old writer living, breathing, working and scribbling in Pittsburgh, PA. She keeps her heart in her mouth, and it tumbles out often. Website: http://honeydunce.com
