The highway was lined with yellows
–goldenrod, helianthus, lupine–
like someone took time to highlight
the key parts to memorize. Remember
cotton fields flush with puffy fluffs
as if marshmallows grew on stems
not factories. And don’t forget
the pecan groves with lush canopies
and polished grounds, those debonair
debutantes of all seasons, branches
heavy with fruits for holiday pies.
But the fallow fields are etched
in my mind–the soil dingy and stale,
left to lie empty, convalescing acre
after acre fringed with those vivid
yellows against grey skies. Memorize
learn by rote, recollect, recall–
recovery comes after harvesting
before recovery after reaping.
Indents halve my fingernail beds
a quarter inch up. Three months, ten
days, however many hours and minutes
times thirteen midnight charlie horses,
times fifty 3 a.m. granola feedings,
times brushfuls of torn hair clumps,
times two of remission. I’m reminded
with nail beds like fallow fields
where keratin canyons highlighted
when my body’s fertile framework
was trampled by armadillos of apathy
and only the soil was left–
dark and dog-tired.
*I’ve been trying to write two different posts recently. One was going to be about my road trip to North Carolina and the other was about the relapse of my syndrome. I couldn’t get either one to where I wanted and then realized tonight that a lot of the language I was using in both was poetic in nature–so why not go at them from a poetic standpoint? Considering road trips are my time to work through what’s going on in my life, it made sense to me to combine the ideas. This is the unedited result.