Ohio

Here is a poem. It has been a while. It is the billionth revision of a poem that I may or may not have posted on here long ago that has never be satisfying and it also gives a place to the last short poem I posted here.

Ohio

From New Orleans, in August

I lived as a Russian toy

in the small town north

of here. My body rolled

in her body. Her ribcage,

rounded as a loving arm,

made those months a hot,

sad surrender. I could get used

to the blatant cold, spring’s wild

dogs, the miles of unholy farmland,

but not the early dark

brought on by winter’s months.

*

Here, the days have me landlocked.

Out the apartment’s two small windows

I can only see where the trash is taken out to.

I understand this hot south as a dogfight.

*

I assume a landscape still exists

after nightfall but I could never really be sure.

-marlo barrera

august 17,2011