In a Montana Hayfield One Summer. by Abby Ripley

STANDING in the FIELD early in the haying season / Filling my lungs with the musty, dusty, earthy / Smell of drying alfalfa / Is a childhood memory alive within me today. / / Each summer the realization of the hard work / That lay before me was redeemed by the first / Gulp of warm air I inhaled / That infused every cell in my body and brain. ...click to READ MORE

Triggered at first by depigmentation,
later continued with general distress;
somehow it took on a new dimension.

Teenaged focus on self-presentation,
declared salt and pepper to be a mess;
triggered at first by depigmentation.

Dear girl,
Cities are big.
Overwhelming even
for the people
who prefer stone,
stinking bridges and
temporary traffic lights
to trees, wet hard earth
and makeshift BMX jumps.

All her stuff is still in our room. Not her and my room, my and his: my roommate's, her man's. She's overdosed on something called D_______. Died. He's in police custody. I don't know why, I'm not the police. So that, right now, it's, I suppose, my room. So I'm in my room when the news reaches me, confined to my room since I'm not yet sure what to do with this information, with the strong light that pours into the common area from large picture windows all around, this being a corner apartment. Light is piped into this room, over the top of rude walls falling short of the ceiling always. With the light surrounding me, by which I can see all her stuff, all of it exploding out of assorted containers which cover every inch of the room of gray wall-to-wall carpeting. Weird bunches and uneven whatevers beneath it.