Raw Goods Inventory

In the Land of Sleeping People

in the land of sleeping people When the lilacs exploded in May, there wasn’t much else to do but take in the scent. Iowa: before the skies opened and poured enough rain to coat the grass with slick mushrooms, the pavement with worms. I’d drive on gravel roads away from the river. Barns crooked, splintering. The corn stunted and slow to leaf. An expanse of fields, a slanted mailbox, makeshift fence. The gypsum mines were lit up at night, the air flour-white. Workers underground in machines big enough to take down a house. An endless circuit of tunnels, alarms connected to the ventilation system, and planned escape routes. I mapped the region, knew the slight rises and sudden drops that even flatness could afford. I knew all the ways to leave—the bridge rusting in its piles. That spring, the lilacs were too early, the neighbor’s mare foaled a spotted colt. In the brown Mississippi, a teenager was still trapped in a red truck, and a sleepwalker dreamt he was in a race and was crushed by a semi. One suicide, then two impersonators. What I can’t shake off— tremors underfoot caused by weapons testing at the military base, fist-sized geodes, the historic library with glass floors earthquake-cracked, the glint of a man’s gold watch face. Eyes of deer 44 along the highway, orange pearls, stone ghost-figures in morning fog. I’ve placed a rock at the base of my bed. I pray if you come back this will keep you out. 45 ...