we keep stories like we keep plastic bags
under the kitchen sink, some hiding, like
restaurant leftovers doomed to spoil
at the back of the fridge, I’m interested
in how midwestern weather shapes our
ambivalence, our acceptance of extremes,
casual stories about bleeding, divorce,
cheating, bless their hearts, at the end
of the evening a denim-clad man will
pick himself up out of the leather chair,
will wring his hands as he’s been sitting
for hours with a “well, I’ll get out
of your hair,” we warsh the dishes, the dirty
laundry, the legacy from under our nails
when the sky goes green it hails, we hang
tales on the line to dry, use the thick
bristled boot brush on the front
porch outside to slough the dust from
our genes. “I have what I need, Mama
I have what I need” I’ll go on.
I’ll be careful now
on Oklahomans
Stasha Cole is a PhD student in literature, a poet, a photographer, and the editorial assistant for Nimrod International Journal. Her work can be found with Susurrus, Pinch, Wild Hyacinth, Poetry South, Anodyne, and Red Flag Poetry, among others.