Heartland

Disassembling itself, Omaha might find
A twelve year-old named Bettina
Thinking to her-self how she’s never met another Bettina
And probably never will.

She blames her parents for such a disaster,
And watches the windows, as thieves, steal
Sunlight from a mid-December afternoon:
Spindrift, hoarfrost, whiteout,
And the brightest glow of white.

Across the street, in the empty lot,
Behind the power station and the pile of broken concrete,
A hopeful murder scene waits impatiently for a murder.

It will wait for years,

Maybe forever.

In the kitchen,
A tangled mess of domestication
Variously called Mom, or Ester, or Honey,
Bakes chicken potpies in an oven
Painted the color of 1954,
While the bitter tapestry of white washed plaster,
Stained yellow from dull conversation,
Chimes in with silence.

With Seventeen Magazine unfurled on her lap,
Bettina sighs and fills the living room with desire-
All vacant lots and all children named Bettina
Dream the same dreams.

She stands and makes for the radio dial.
The geriatric machine recounts a geriatric tale
From the next town over,
And even Bettina knows
All endings sound the same.

This poem first appeared in F News Magazine's "Ink" publication, and is reprinted here by permission.