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Nebraska
Part I

The Platte’s muddy
Ribbon, twists,
Braids, plaited
With trees that suck
The life, the water,
from the river.

The “divide” (a?)
Between Little Blue
And Republican Rivers:
Cather’s land.

II

Soybeans, squat, bushy.
Corn majestic tall.
Both in a blue bowl sky.
Pivots of water
Puddles and pools,
where cows come to stand.
Rolls. (Rolling?)
Into Kansas.
Prairie becoming a cultivated carpet.
A land I can shrug on,
Glove my feet,
Root them in blue stem
And buffalo grass.

Kansas III
If I “can’t go home again”—why
Do I feel so alive?
under endless sky?
Wind that whips
Yet caresses and wraps its arms around my body.
Rhizome, planted
To keep me still.
A voice wakes me.
Why do I undulate
my emotions like the limestone
struggling to break
through the surface
of the humps of hills.
(the ocean underneath the waves)
Once when I was a child
I held a seashell
found lying in a cow pasture.
White as the cumulous clouds
Stacked in the east.
I marveled at its placement
Without a present sea.


If all I am
Is formed by 15
Can the mountains
Ever take the place of sky?

Why do I fight?
To twist, twine myself
In the grassy earth?
Will my skin
flake off like chips
of limestone exposed
by the cut of the road?
Are the scars of my life
Imprinted like the fossil shells
on limestone fence posts?

IV

I can’t be the fence.
I can’t keep the barb sharp.
The electricity
cannot flow.
It will keep rolling,
heaving past
the telephone lines.
The prairie surges,
Swells fecund,
fructiferous,
and I can’t ask myself,
“Can the mountains ever take this place?”


V
I am hot-wired
To these forsaken farms.
Barns slivered gray, collapsing
inward, to let the sky fall over them.
The roads dwindle to grass,
velutinous over earth.

Dusty toes leave tracks
in the earth,
like dinosaurs left tracks in limestone rock.
The puddles from thunderstorms
the night before, vaguely brings to mind
some other timely tragic
upheaval.
Seas sucked to ground and sucked up to heaven.

Nebraska

2nd draft

The Platte's muddy
ribbon, twists,
braids, plaited
with trees that suck
the life, the water,
from the river.

The Divide (a?)
between the Little Blue
and Republican river-
The Land:
Willa's home.

II
Soybeans, bushy in green,
Corn, majestic tall in a blue bowl sky,
dipping and swaying in a constant prairie wind.
Puddles and pools
where cows come to stand,
circular pivots with dried out corners.
Rolls (rolling) into Kansas.
Prairie carpets:
a land I can shrug on,
implant my feet,
root in blue stem
and buffalo grass.

III
Kansas


If I "can't go home
again"- why
do I feel so alive under endless sky?

Winds whip,
and wrap arms
around my body.
Rhizome. Planted
to keep me still,
a voice that wakes me.

my emotions undulate
like the limestone
(dead creatures of forgotten seas)
struggling
to break through surface grass?
The ocean underneath the waves.

(Once when I was a child
I held a seashell,
found lying in a Kansas cow pasture.
White as cumulus stacked in the east.
I marveled at its placement
without a present sea.)

I fight
to twist, twine myself
in the grassy earth.
If all I am
is formed by 15,
can the mountains
ever take the place of sky?

Will my skin flake off like chips
of limestone
exposed by the cut of the road?
Are the scars of my life imprinted like fossil shells
in scattered debris of rock?
or fence post crooked on the wind?

I can't be the fence.
I can't be the barb sharp.
the electricity
can not flow.
It should roll,
heaving past
fence lines
while the prairie surges,
swells, fecund,
fructiferous.

IV

I am hot wired
to these forsaken farms,
barns silvered gray,
collapsing inward to let the sky
fall in them.

The roads that dwindle to grass,
velutinous over earth.
Dusty toes leave tracks
in the primordial mud,
puddles left from the thunderstorm the night before.
the road of my youth crawled over those familiar hills:
dinosaur hill,
plum valley,
dump hill,
buffalo slough,
snake cellar.

V

There be monsters hidden in those ancient farm implements.
teeth rusting evil in the afternoon sun.
A neck of a monster
that would chase me if I dared to look him in the eye.
(Just as I dreamed of tornadoes with evil personalities chasing me with intent to kill)

Was it a mother's warning
that instilled fear?
or a father's
admonition to stay clear,
that KEPT
me from the mossy steps in dank the earth
a cellar drear, monsters ....

In the distance
the windmill clangs
as it switches gears,
cows bellow at feeding time
(I remember fetching cows!
"Cum Boss. Cum Boss.")

grassy fragrant rich manure dries:
land minds to avoid in pasture fields.
The cotton woods rustle to whisper their secrets
to me on afternoon breeze.
Meadowlarks whistle my name and bobwhites "killdeer".
a hint of water, mixed with ripening plum.
life on a Kansas Prairie.