Dove-tailed
by April Michelle Bratten

There are no trees to cast shadows
along a North Dakotan highway,
only stacks of hay,
patch of sunflower,
empty, empty.

I wish to linger inside a roll of hay,
as a passing thought, to smell of earth,
to sound like words that were swallowed
and never spoken.

My air is calm.
I am a silence that passes as a particle
in the scraps of daylight.
I stretch along the road.

The skyline breathes,
rising and falling as a blurred and broken line
that I stare at for far too long.

I will not touch it.

The sun sinks away
and I am left to contemplate the stars.
They stare back down at me,
blinking, uneasy.

The air is still.
It chokes.

Frost encases a blade of browned grass,
choking it, leaving it fighting for air.

It melts between my fingertips.

April Michelle Bratten is an English major at Minot State University in Minot, North Dakota. She has been previously published in several small online journals including decomP, Brain Box, Sein und Werden, and Kill Poet. April is an avid fan and writer of confessional poetry. She co-edits the literary zine Up the Staircase.

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