I can escape, almost, past
eyes that stare. Feet bare
I squish through mud, puddles
forming in my heart. Darting
through the river, fish dodge
jagged stones, worries swarm
like flies I soon outrun.
Sunlight dries grass
wet with dew, smooths goose pimples
that dot my forearms, thighs. Lengthwise across the sky clouds stretch like cotton pulled apart. A wooden cart, abandoned
for Fords, reminds me of errands
as yet undone. One rabbit
watches from the far shore,
nervously nibbling grass. A mass
of hyacinths protrudes, purple
bruise on the pale brown land.
Somewhere a dying pronghorn's whine
subsides. Beside my bed a nurse
pulls up the blinds.
Austin Wallace is a former teacher who now works as a Disability Rights Advocate, and sometimes writes poetry. His poems have appeared in Abyss & Apex, Extracts, Frogpond, The Stray Branch, and Wordgathering.