“Come. Come and
live with me.”
Her voice has always
been the same.
Somewhere in an old barn
and must-smelling earth.
Someplace where the hoot owl
sings to night blossoms
and the wind is dark
and sweet like
rare old wine.
Some sunny place where corn stalks
unbutton their green jackets
and wag their golden
hair in the full breeze.
Someplace where farmers
lean on unpainted fences
and spit tobacco juice
through rust-stained teeth.
Someplace like that—
I don’t remember. But
someplace like that,
I found her.
“These places still exist.”
I tell myself,
“Somewhere they still exist!”
But I cannot find them.
I am unable to recall
her name, who she was,
the nature of her lure.