by Trista Edwards

Today, I unfurl like the hem
of your favorite sweater, forget

you don’t care. When your mother plowed
into the mailbox with her Plymouth,

a torrent of letters cascaded her hood,
chickens flocking a trough.

I’m tired of flagging you down, reminding
you elms don’t flourish in deserts.

However deep their roots plunge,
water won’t congregate in sand.

The best jackknife I ever saw was on I-85:
hundreds of chickens skidded

the pavement, traffic jammed for miles.
It was like a pillow factory exploding.

I embroidered a pillow once with the inscription
Please wipe your feet here. I wish I could

tighten the bolts of my four speed Huffy,
comb the streamers with my fingers. Maybe I will

scrap the bike for your birthday, become lone
walkers together. Pedaling uphill is rough anyway

on my ulcer. They say George Hincapie biked
from Portugal to Austria in three days.

He said it was so easy it was like pedaling
in his sleep. In my sleep the desert is awash

in those feathers, all that lightness.
You, however, were never one for travel.

Trista Edwards was born in Ohio, currently lives in Georgia, but is a soon-to-be Texan. Her and her trusty pup, Buster, will be hitting the dusty trail out west to attend the University of North Texas and conquer the Ph.D. program for creative writing in the Fall of 2012. She earned both her B.A. and M.A. in English from the University of West Georgia in 2008 and 2011, respectively. When not writing poetry she fancies herself a weekend wine connoisseur, an amateur crafter, and a hiking enthusiast.