The Oregon Trail is the Oregon
Trail is bipolar
Look at the sky still in the sky. How long now?
So many years I’ve slept alone, felt the world struggle
beneath me. Before the pills I slept with everything under me,
I was a collector. I told the trail Be my museum.
The first time I saw you I thought If you were water I’d be wet.
Now we wrestle in the back of the wagon, sell rifles
to Indian guides, pretend this corn is going to be easy
to digest. Today I have bones that feel like Pixy
Stix, get-well cards I’ll forget to mail out. Never
start the trail in March, always pack two sets of clothing
per passenger. On this day in March the Kansas River
flows too quickly to freeze, and my heart skips too fast
to catch. Watch me watch you go. Goodbye,
confidence! Goodbye, I love your left dimple
the most! I blow into a torn piece of grass, play spoons
on the inside of my thighs. This is sexy talk for the deaf.
Come hatch my chest, I am over your inner beauty.
This is my mind on nothing but my mind. Tonight
we sleep on blankets covered in dust.