Dinner Date with the Midwestern Wind | Francesca Miller-Barrett
When the salt hits my tongue, I taste a
sweetness at the end.
[whistle]
After I became rugged, the wind smoothed
me out. I still catch pulverized minerals in
the air. [hiss]
I carried the Ice Age in loess, what else can
be noted? I pick harebells and place them on
the table. [hummm]
An empire, a gradient of grass, I look for
false prairie and hear my residue over
cylinders and stretched wire. Is this on the
record? [howl]
Look, active weather, I’ll chase the tornado
if you want. I’ll let you rip the siding off the
garage. I’ll call off the plow and wait for the
wood lily. [rustle]
If the prairie is nothing but grass, I’m
nothing but blood and a sweet-tooth. [sigh]
If I bring out the barb wire, you’ll find your
way through, I promise. If I spend another
night wrestling with asphalt, I’ll call you. [swish]
At the end of the day, I only hear the gentle
trickle of water and the purple in the clouds.
If you want this to be pretty, call Mr. Wright.
I braid the monocot through my hair and
wait for you to blow it toward salvation.
[buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz]
Francesca Miller-Barrett (she/they) is an always poet, sometimes prose writer residing in Chicago with her spouse and two cats. She is a two time recipient of the Ruth Cooley Poetry Prize, awarded through the American Academy of Poets University and College Prizes. Her work has appeared in HAD, Apocalypse Confidential, Written on a Napkin, and Parquet.