Rory Winton, contributor

My hot, southern state would rather I not come home to it anymore, but I dream anyway.

Of the bluebonnet patch in the parking lot of my old church,

of the sweat that dripped down my nose in the summers,

of my grandmother’s dying farm, overwhelmed by katydids.

I delight in the snow of Northern winters,

and still curse the sharp ice under my boots.

My state would not have tripped my feet and broken my trust how the ice does now.

God, I dream.

Of sinking into the sweaty leather seats of my uncle’s Jeep,

whipping around the bends of unpaved roads, gravel flying into the windshield.

I didn’t ever fear he would be rejected, sent off-road.

An owl once escorted me out of my father’s graveyard.

I had only been there twice,

and I don’t remember where he is.

Somewhere deep in the dead yellow grass.

It was waiting for us in the middle of the road.

A foreboding, beautiful thing.

Sitting, perched on the stones like she knew I was coming.

It was forgiving me, for not taking the time to think

of getting eaten alive by mosquitoes in June, twenty bites on each leg.

Of the stench of the sulfur powder on my ankles to ward away the chigger bugs.

Of dead yellow grass, growing in the seams of the sidewalks, everywhere I go.