Ethan Pines, American Window / Montana Roadside Home, 2020, 2020 (Artist Website)
Photograph
The grandfather clock fills with snow
in the alley, an iris bulb
sensing for warmth.
Years of sleep have taught me
patience, the earth’s precise tilt.
I breathed onto cold glass
and wanted to call it miraculous. Of course
it was a lie. I have never been so ordinary.
Not since the day I touched the electric fence,
sunlight streaming behind me. I was seven,
all afternoon, stretching
to lure in a horse with a carrot.
Current sunk through me like sonar.
It’s embarrassing
to tell this story—wasn’t I lucky?
Within spitting distance,
both of my parents in my house.
Sweet corn stand down the road.
Horses, for god’s sake—
horses right there.
There was no need to tell
what happened—no blood.
Flat pasture ran right up to the barn.
With no blooms to gentle the view, I understood:
so this is what it will be like.
Walking away,
touching my arms, my chest
to test if I’d spark.