The Fieldstone Review

Cyclone, almost

after Fiona Apple

by Katherine DeCoste

The poplars seeded twice this year
and we can’t get good get gone
go anywhere fucking go
they attacked all my systems until they shut
down 		      mid-air, midsummer
	   tumbling
from cumulus to crown

I will indulge in you
box me and tie me with tape to this
tarnished once-oak floor, God help
me and we can’t get out get in
get around it or anything else
we’re snowed in here
and 		      the river is haunting me
	   swiftly and surely
all the way west

The maps we made of the moon’s
surface are less than useless
my mother asks why I dispose
	   of medical waste she keeps
piles of photographs of a body
I do not recognize and points to it
Saying 	      my name

I’d dance across prairies
and into mountains with you but it’s
	   Nothing personal only I need
to trace the moss lines to higher altitudes
And clearer airs	      I am giddy
with oxygen sickness, with wide-eyed
and wide-legged births of new languages