Carrie Etter

Divining for Starters (44)

on the prairie, flat land stretching to the horizon

hence the weight of sky

a tractor supply store, baseball caps with cornseed logos

after the planting, before shoots emerge

that potential, the greatest breadth of possibility

gazing hand over eyes at apparent emptiness

acre after acre of

Divining for Starters (45)

the threatening heat
the whiff of catastrophe

fake leather booths
electronic dance music

who will say it
who will rise and

in the poverty of a brightly lit
repeating sisters’ names

alternating prayers
on this heavy

my nimble and tired
another bead on the rosary

Divining for Starters (35)

From January’s frozen plateau, the appearance of sun a deceit

There are words for music, but no score. Hence they accumulate like snowflakes, an indistinguishable mass.

As my late friend liked to say—

My masks need dusting: the Sumatran dancer looks ill, his blue cheeks paled by ash.

This is the first place I’ve lived where damp is used as a noun.

Beyond my window, light and more light. I will stay here to imagine it warm to the touch.

One more cup of tea, one more stalled cry—