by: Olivia J. Kiers *Content Warning: Depiction of Death or Terminal Illness* Iowa again, this time elsewhere. About the Author
Amtrak through Iowa
A screen of trees—the green
green green then chartreuse blaze
the full-tilt train makes of a field,
trying to eat its delay.
But there’s no making it up now.
We’ll be there when
there arrives to us, slopes breaking
to show a river’s underbelly,
this mirror an antique sky
of mid-afternoon gnats
and dragonflies
finding their pitch in the clouds’
grey scud—
where’s the where?
In the wheels
and trestle countdowns,
squat silos and passengers leaning
with the list, phone to window
and locking eyes
with their reflections,
chatter of the missing birds
just flitting our shoulders.
Corn is here and not yet cattle.
There is a baby on board, and one dead man.
Raised in rural Virginia, Olivia J. Kiers is a poet and museum professional now based near Worcester, Massachusetts. Her poetry has been published in The Oakland Review, Twin Pies Literary, Variant Lit, and West Trade Review, among others. She was the poetry co-editor of Crack the Spine from 2018-2020.
