In a field, a house.
Asleep in the house, a girl.
From the barn behind the house, happy whinnying,
the carnival smell of shit and hay.
Blue lupine rims the field, bends
in a crescendo of wind.
And the jasmine—
threaded through the arbor,
drunk with the scent of itself—
the jasmine pulls the storm in,
twists the dark cone from cloud
and tugs it earthward.
Spins it toward the barn.
The cone parts the roof to peer
at the horses, black as pupils,
so silent: a mime of fright.
The cone peels back the walls,
shreds the beams and joists,
flings the partition that once formed
Now they are together,
can step into the field
and mouth the supple grasses.
They can cross the lupine
into the brilliant beyond, alone as gods.
When will the sleeping girl know their sorrow?
Who will bring them sugar at the end of the world?
Copyright © Chelsea Wagenaar
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.