The schoolbell rings and dies before
the first clang can reach the nearest farm.
With land this open, wind is blowing
when there is no wind. The gym’s so ugly
victory leaves you empty as defeat,
and following whatever game
you will remember lost, you run fast
slow miles home through grain,
knowing you’ll arrive too late
to eat or find the lights on.
Flat and vast. Each farm beyond
a gunshot of the next. A friend
is one you love to walk to, 28 below.
A full moon makes this prairie moon
and horses in a thick night
sound like bears. When your sister’s raped
help is out of range. Father’s far
from Mother and a far bell’s
always ringing you can’t hear.
The teacher either must be new each year
or renewed forever. Old photos
show her just as gray beside the class
of ’35. Indians rehearse
the Flag Salute, and tourists
on their way to Hot Springs wave.
The road beside the school goes either way.
The last bell rings. You run again,
the only man going your direction.