Emily brandt


I guess it’s too late to live on the farm

This horizon line is twine held taut
and I am about to pluck it, mistake it

for fuchsia thread of the coat button
in my pocket, mistaken for a Klonopin

prescribed in conjunction with magnesium injection
to still a dizzy head. The injection was long

and warm, looked down to see fuchsia
between these thighs. The next time I was less

lucky and relied on herbs grown in my sister’s
garden turned to tincture with whiskey and honey

infused in moonlight on my grandfather’s land.
He dealt guns. He raised ducks and women

plucked them featherless and warm, a few coins
in their pockets and trigger fingers. They could

shoot the ducks off the horizon line sewn into
the seams of skirts worn working. The seamstress’

steady hand was wife of a man, ate potatoes
wild and raw, a string connected across water

and whiskey black memory. I guess it’s too late to live
on the farm which stands still like a rifle and surrounded

by houseframes bursting like gadwalls and mallards.
This tincture really works when you take it

with a Klonapin, before hurricanes largely unavailable.
The women walked this farm battening hatches

in broad and foreboding sun. To kill a duck thrust
its head into this funnel and chop and drain

repeat. I guess it’s too late to live on the farm now
that the wind stopped blowing and the tablecloths

have no tables holding their shapes. It’s easy to see the blades
when the fan is off. It’s easy to look straight at the sun

when it’s just about to sink and the spins settle in
to slack heartbeat and stark mind, set

true on the trigger and nothing much to hunt these days.



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