The Grass in Arkansas
by CL Bledsoe

doesn’t need wind to dance.
Tiny dark olive hands wave
you onward; though there are snakes,
ticks, holes deep enough to wrench
an ankle, there’s no choice but to run.

* *

The sun dozes just above your shoulder,
leeching the green from everything.
Cows nip the grasses’ tips and chew
for hours.

* *

Hills exist to run down
too fast to stop at the bottom.
The legs are scourged clean;
in a similar way, the thoughts.
If you pause long enough, you’ll hear
the susurrations of the dead, begging.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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