By D. Kendric Blake

In Topeka I stopped  
To consider Christina’s World, 
Flat and barren,  
Fecundity gone,  
And she, Christina,  
Impaled upon wheat  
On a forsaken burnt-brown hill 
Near her seasoned-grey house
Its shingles peeling in pieces  
Like boiled eggshells,  
While in pale-pink she winces 
To reason why a dead dusk sky 
Contains her world  
Like snake skin she cannot shed .  

Yet, the barns one side looks good
Its lines solid and steady  
On the crest of the ocean-prairie
And she, Christina, has hope 
That this view may not be the best
And that tomorrow from another side 
She may finally decide about the rest

D. Kendric Blake