Jane Says

I only know they want me, prone to stupefaction

at the ambivalence of men. The house is sleeping,

but she’s flipping through American Spirits,

the canned laughter of heroin nights. Her oneiric

fades: prairie grass bending away, barnyard decay,

red-checkered tableware, summer running liquid

air, languorous lift of an American flag, her grandparents

waving, her faded duffle bag, the Irish setter

spiraling in circles. A patrol car paints more tattoos,

and out of silence, they move, too, like green vines.