Issue 4 Cover_final_web Poecology

Issue 4



Allison Davis



             your rivers whittle
down my bones. Into the mud

my heels press like arrows,
my blood rings metallic rung

by rung. I yearn to be your son
as much as daughter. I pace

your streets until they festival
like calendars; I learn to bite

my lip and made a dollar.
I grow strong and stubborn off your water.

Ohio, be holy as your mounds. Ohio, who spires me,
who weathervanes me. Who knows

who I came out of. Her father mixed
starch in the backroom. Her father mixed

March in the backroom, and all the weather
in the evening draped like tents behind

my school, pitched blue. The beads
I wore were gravel, gravel on my knees

and how I traveled, how my sister rode
the playground swings at dusk, and how,

how high the wildflowers, grew, but always you,
always. All of the ways you outgrew them.