stolen home

I spent my time there, on the farm

breathing in the young spirits

watering my wilting roots--

three weeks in the middle

of things, in the middle

of the end.

eighty horses, hills,

little girls in PJs and

muck boots

and girls whose childhoods

were rooted in the land,

No,

this isn’t the place where

I got high for the first time.

smoking

at the homestead after circle game,

vespers, and the emergence

of heavy stars

this isn’t the place where

I watched three horses fall dead

in a single summer,

Gruffy’s body lying in the sand under

a blanket until sunrise, Gunner still

screaming out to him

this isn’t the place where I overdosed

on Benadryl then loaded a bus to the

Cheshire Fair—

Southern New Hampshire’s

summer glory – I must ask, can you lock me

in that cabin,

bunk 8, and allow me to stay a while?—

I must ask the girls in muck boots

with hay rash,

braided hair, headlamps

and Starbursts

in their dresser drawer