heartland

HEARTLAND

it is the rural landscapes that are the marrow within my bones, the day my grandparent’s cornfild burned to ash, the day the dirt became new. it is the trailer park in my blood, the magnolia roots that grip my tongue. heartland is the place where the road ends, the most southern tip of the state, the place where the chesapeake turns undeniably red. i’ve swam to virginia before from here, brackish water in my lungs, jellyfish at my heels. heartland is the place that birthed me; out i came, covered in blood and membrane and marsh.

i’ve come to realize i feel safest

while in the arms of the countryside. the drives through the small towns with ramblers that line the streets, the dirt roads

named after great grandmothers and beloveds: this is where i am at peace. yes, cities may take more breaths but their lungs are foul, caving in on themselves from the rot of decay. but the hills? the flatlands? the creeks?

a beautiful melody, more alive than your figertips at the piano, more alive than racing through the night air, more alive than the clock counting to your last exhale.

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i feel the birds circling sometimes, when i am home at last.

they don’t call out to me, for my name doesn’t read well in the south. it is heavy like molasses, ridden with the viscosity of ten thousand histories. don’t slur it, i say, but i don’t think heartland can hear me

over her violet slumber.

i crawl home to heartland each night, tired. she clips my bumble bee wings and at last, i fid sleep.

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