A Sunday Drive Through Kansas



The road was a flat sheet,

a Nascar announcer’s voice

between waves of static. Corn,

shriveled from unseasonable drought,

I waved at the oil wells we passed

and counted them through the window


crunched with brown grass as I laid

in a ditch, among fields of broken glass

and found the station wagon,

now upside down, Garth Brooks-

from out of nowhere

another field of soybeans dried


until the following week when it rained

and our crops drowned.

Grandma told us

next summer we’d replant tomatoes.

That fall,

I pulled sharp slivers out of my hair

piece after piece.

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