H E R M E N E U T I C C H A O S J O U R N A L
There are mornings when I think I can see, literally see,
the words falling from your head. Black letters,
heavy on the kitchen’s dirt-dull linoleum. Pick up apple,
I want to say. Pick up squirrel and razor. Placemat.
Pick up the story about driving out to the oil fields
of Louisiana as a teenager, your first real job. The rigs
that bobbed and loomed on the horizon like prehistoric birds.
The boys you sat with in the back of the red-rusted truck—pick up
the name of the boy whose daddy owned the company.
His own sweet 18 year-old mind already softened to jelly
by drugs. Tell me again how you asked the field manager
what kind of work it was you’d be doing, and tell me his reply:
Boy, only work we've got out here is the hard-ass kind. And didn’t
the field seem strange in its bleak beauty? And wasn't
your teenage heart pounding? So ready to make something
of it all. To claim one splinter of black earth as your own.
Originally from Louisiana, Anna Lowe Weber currently lives in Huntsville, Alabama, where she teaches composition and creative writing for the University of Alabama in Huntsville. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in such journals as Rattle, Ninth Letter, the Florida Review, and Ascent, among others.
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