Anti positivism by Evana Bodiker

Anti positivism

The skin on my shoulders peels.
Slack and careless, I was out all
afternoon in a meadow. Ever cannot
tell the wide openness. The shades
half-drawn now. Unblinking, I see 
gliding lightning through bottom
heavy clouds, those I should know
the names of from grade school
as if I didn’t strain and hope listening
would ferry me. Because we learned
the devil beating his wife means sun
shower, special weather. I didn’t
ration an entire day for just normal
aging. I rub my eyes until little
cobwebs roll into my sight, an
irregularity that does not concern,
flitting waifish like smoke wisps
after a candle is blown out. It’s
always expanse, a flare that spoons
and spreads its full-bodied shape
on the bed. I put a security bar
against the front doorknob but
I still roll over and wake held by
it, unceremonious and drenched
in sweat. Wind, yet again.

Image Credit: Clouds, Johan Hagemeyer / The Met. 

About the author

Evana Bodiker is a poetry MFA candidate at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Her work appears in Frontier Poetry, Tin House Online, The Sonora Review, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in Iowa City, IA and North Carolina.

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