out the window
neighbors string clear bulbs
across their lawn
fearing the sun will not
be sufficient this spring

morning. I go out to get a haircut
or have oral surgery,
and the highway ferries me
across a field barren
save rows of stalks.

brown, tan, burnt umber
crusting the place where dead
plant meets dust.
the sky so blue, a sign—
WE GROW DREAMS beside

metal arches rib-caging the dirt below,
and while this whale size skeleton
awaits plastic skin of resurrection,
I’ll return to watch the neighbors’ party
with shorter hair or missing teeth.

Christie Wilson lives in Illinois. Her work has appeared in various places, including Bending Genres, New World Writing Quarterly, MoonPark Review, and Pidgeonholes. You can visit her at christie-wilson.com, or follow her on Instagram and Twitter @5cdwilson.