Embrace by Janie StapletonPoecology
Issue 5

Lia Greenwell

Drill

I went back to Michigan
to see if I could
come home again.

In the bordering cornfields
where I ran and
hid as a girl

there was now a machine,
lit up and towering above
the snow drifts.

An oil rig.    Exploratory
they said. It felt
the dark earth below.

I remember the farmer
telling me about
the frost line.

If you dig deep enough,
some things are
left unchanged.

                  *

The rig was lit-up top to bottom:
a fair ride, bright
arrows pointing skyward.

Someone in a metal box
might flip over and over and
scream and laugh in lights

but without music.

                  *

The rig roars all night,
sucking in air, pushing
further and further down.

The surrounding stadium lights
leave nothing unseen,
except for where the drill

is going. All illumination
remains above ground. The drill
fumbles like a boy’s hand

into the dark field.