KG Newman The Pride Acre

Bison extinction redux, assured technology to autofeed the orange calves backfiring but ignored: hence full-size skeleton ribcages strewn across our dream on the plains, the kids with no friends and plucking sad harmonies on dried, stretched sinew just to drown out the loud farmhouse kitchen.

The machine of decisions pushing the wind and the tall grass apart. Uphill, between blackberry bushes, I’m folded and weathered dry — no map left of where a husband bled, where he did not.