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Nowhere // Benjamin Prinkki

The road wanders towards nowhere,
where the tallest trees are sagebrush
and the tallest sagebrush is home
to the lonesome snake. He still
hasn’t shaken his tale. There’s nothing
to scare for miles. Out here
the sun gets tired and arcs the sky
in a low swing. Years ago women
witched for wells then headed back
to town saying the only good thing
to build out there would be a jail.
And even that would fade. Walls
bleached colorless like the dirt, razor
wire rusted, more so from the wind and
the sun than from one rain a year.
The crows called it the land of the forgotten.
For the farmers it wasn’t worth the grass
they pick their teeth with. But one day,
either from climate change or lack
of land, families will call this nothingness
home, hanging green garden hoses
from hooks next to the garage, paving
driveways and cul-de-sacs lying spread like gray
caterpillars, and pooling their earnings
to build the town’s church,
so that the priest can bless the land.