48.1 - Winter 2019

Page 111


The Windfarm We were sweeping the garage for tacks, odd scraps of shingling when she told me she’d still go to the zoning meetings if it didn’t cost a slashed tire every // fuckin // time. That garage was a barn, I think. Milorganite. Deer-corn. The slithering braille of birdshot beneath our steps. This, the truth of it, she said, & what beside it, & in the delta of a vacant palm offered me that ravaged past, half-life of car wrecks & Labor Days & godchildren gone in church-hall games of tag. Forty year neighbors, some of them. Now, the macheted politesse of severance. Now, the bitter hitching of porch clasps on a caravan of workers clearing land, distant truck-treads the mucked utterance of sellout. She does not ask me on whose side I’ve been standing, & I would not know. It has felt like a shittily-cut documentary since the fights began. Front-yard // backyard fictions. Wooden road signs stolen & burned & bought & burned again & what I think I am trying to say is : when the turbines went up, half the county suddenly cared for birds. 102 | PHOEBE 48.1

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