Back then, I leaned into the strange. I wanted to get married,
I wanted to get drunk off the summer rain – I let the recycled sunlight
hit my body from between the stark, thin bodies of the trees.
The sweltering bullet sat deep in my chest, nestled next to my ribs, &
I listened to your vignettes about Georgia & Maine, about the way
the swollen gold fields cradled houses in their hands. As
you drove me in that blue truck, I couldn’t shake the feeling
this wasn’t all that was left for me. I kept waiting to find the next new
beautiful state, the place where I’d feel like I finally fit in, but that place never came.
Never presented itself to me. I dreamed you were a cowboy off in the desert plains,
& your blue truck was your horse that I named PRAYER. The bullet grew hot &
shed its skin to reveal the full force of the swollen gold sun sitting polite in my stomach.
I stripped & fell into the lake. I listened to more stories of Georgia & Maine.
I dreamed in even more detail about changing my name, I dreamt of cowboys, the maps,
the strangeness inside all of my body. I dreamt of how it felt: by God, I was misplaced.
I could only find home in your stories of your better days.

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Winona Fairchild is a poet from Chicago who loves to find the odd in the ordinary. She focuses on creating art about memory and dialogue. Aside from writing, her hobbies include testing different types of jam. You can find Winona under the handle @applejamgirl on Twitter and Bluesky.