Hobble Creek Review
| Nancy Devine |
Prairie opens her two cupped hands
Studebaker fins jut
and angle; they are the color of eggplant
dusty eggplant
latticework frames the doorway
rising and falling so many times
it’s no longer the house’s feeble try at resurrection.
I’ve painted my legs with fake tanner
ensconced them in flannel pajamas. I want
to wake different is what I used to think,
my thighs shades of burnished orange rinds
my hands symmetrical
like the car in the driveway
leaking some auto
amniotic fluid onto the pocked cement
in the shape of a cloud, a particular
one roiled with rain in
the western sky where
I imagined this town ends and
the next thing over is its hearse.
Studebaker fins jut
and angle; they are the color of eggplant
dusty eggplant
latticework frames the doorway
rising and falling so many times
it’s no longer the house’s feeble try at resurrection.
I’ve painted my legs with fake tanner
ensconced them in flannel pajamas. I want
to wake different is what I used to think,
my thighs shades of burnished orange rinds
my hands symmetrical
like the car in the driveway
leaking some auto
amniotic fluid onto the pocked cement
in the shape of a cloud, a particular
one roiled with rain in
the western sky where
I imagined this town ends and
the next thing over is its hearse.
Nancy Devine teaches high school English in Grand Forks, North Dakota,
where she lives with her husband Chuck and their two dogs, Whitey and
Yo-yo. She co-directs the Red River Valley Writing Project, a local site of the
National Writing Project. Her poems have appeared in online and print
journals. In 2007, she was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
where she lives with her husband Chuck and their two dogs, Whitey and
Yo-yo. She co-directs the Red River Valley Writing Project, a local site of the
National Writing Project. Her poems have appeared in online and print
journals. In 2007, she was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
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