Wilting weak
Facing a silent streak inside of a quarter mile
Crushed stone lines my pockets
The soles worn from my shoes
A grappling hook stomach walks beside me
Nagging about the time and the timing of it all
My eyes are made of shredded paper
Dry
Dry like a footnote
Roads are an impossibility
The futility of keeping silt in the sand
Each hip a Clydesdale
Hauling roots from the ground
Step after step
The blood in my mouth
No longer bothers me
The iron in my back
No longer bothers me
The embers the screech the grinding bone teeth
No
longer
The tire tracks carve between
A field laying fallow and threatening wheat.
The road meets my knees
And here’s the heave
Dry
Dry like a footnote.
About this Poem
Kat Graham is a poet and essayist. Most recently, she participated in Framework: Words on the Land, part of the Ottawa Writers Festival. Born in Kingston, Ontario, she has lived in Montreal, Nelson, Perth and Halifax. She now lives in Wilton, Ontario.