From the cast-iron mailbox down the road, I bring her three weeks worth of Sunday papers, but she has already gone to bed. Through the windows I can feel the haunt. My uncle died in the tub we all bathe in. I close the doors, shut off the lights, prepare to spend the night among the grains, gather bedding. I fill the fields with my shadows.
Nothing moves very quickly.
I settle down, wrapped in my blankets of cotton. I curl around the corn, so dry and heavy, nothing dares to touch, and I do not dare to breathe. All Copyright, Julie Platt. All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.