Bigot Season

by Luiza Flynn-Goodlett

I refuse to haunt—smuggled

like lust’s magma in a Victorian

letter (envelope tongued longer

than necessary). Legible as ink

down a forearm, I’m cast from

blessedly dark parking lots, pool

tables that beg to be bent over,

cigarettes ashed in every empty

vessel. No longer able to follow

a cobblestone of graves across

the Mason–Dixon and be snared

in the nets of light spilling out

screen doors. But I know this

potbellied swath of states better

than it knows itself—we both

cram what alarms, along with

our longing for it, deep as a fist.

Press ears to dirt—we’ll swarm,

fields husk-heavy in our wake.