——–—1

In my dream, W.H. Auden and his husband
are talking about how much they enjoy playing house
in the ersatz suburb where I grew up.
They find the bald redundancy refreshing,
even stimulating. They get a kick out of taking
twilight strolls on smooth sidewalks past
tiny trees and the glares of the neighbors. For fun,
they like to throw those people off the trail
by inviting women over for backyard parties.
“I guess I’m one of them,” I laugh,
as if it wasn’t so,
but I think they’ve gone to extremes.

 

——–—2

Where I’m from,
things are standoffish,

isolated
as if posed.

Rabbit bush, rabbit bush,
rabbit bush, a few feet

of sandy soil between.
Then, rounding a curve,

there’s Jesus,
big as a house

made entirely
of soda cans

and car parts.

 

 

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Rae Armantrout’s most recent poetry collection is Finalists (Wesleyan). Her book Versed won the Pulitzer Prize and National Book Critics Circle Award. She is the current judge of the Yale Younger Poets Award.

 

 

 

Photo by Tom Rumble on Unsplash