Couri Johnson is a graduate of the North Eastern Ohio Master of Fine Arts. She has recently moved from Youngstown, Ohio to Marugame, Japan, where she is teaching English and working on a collection of modern Fairy tales. She can be found on twitter at a_couri.
Rust Belt
Mama and me were born
here, so we have it in our bones.
Railroad tracks, steel rusted through.
A quiet kind of decay like you find
in baby animals left on the side of the road.
A place like this makes dying look easy,
and we do it well enough.
My sister and father have Southern blood,
warmer, in need of much more light.
They’re the ones who have trouble adjusting.
Sister imbibes metal, hooks needles in
her skin till her voice is as hard as worn breaks.
No difference now between can’t stop and won’t stop.
Pa is one long moan, the last bit of a hurricane
blown North. His season is long past, the storm
petering out. I sit on my hands listening to the
last few gusts, feeling my place break him apart.
Thinking that not even thunder should die
so very far from home.