The night his heart was an empty refrigerator box we walked towards Sherman Park, and screamed at bare branches. With adolescent smoking, we practiced the art of blowing rings at the moon. He said “they found a dead man here.”He said “the stars are only puncture wounds of light.” To get out of a small town, you sometimes have to settle for a rotting log. A rope swing with no bridge. An invisible train with no station, but plush leather seats and a dining car. In the woods, we talked about important things: would you rather? The capital of Kansas is not Kansas City. And what a surprise when he pushed my head toward his zipper, which glinted like train tracks under the glare of the moon.
-- Ruth Homberg