Lines of the Lark

     tight marks in the earth—dashes
     I close a circle of rose rocks

     the wheat warned me—the Lark is lurking
     its wings wrinkle on my back

     heaviness spirals on my neck
     my crown of prairie-fire falls to the ground

     I pretend to know Morse code
     because, because I am staccato and fragmented

     my hands carry red dirt and the names
     that will never grow here again

     shocks of sapphire spit
     gasoline water runs from my lips

     my cerise breath swells and breaks
     do larks even come to Oklahoma?

     meadowlark, skylark, what a lark!
     do not sing unless I say I will listen

     where were the scissor-tails?
     the lines the Lark left still ring metallic

     the old world billows but I cannot fly


Michelle Watts is a dog walker who likes poetry. Her first book, Dis, is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press.
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