Every Morning I Used to Bury the Wind by Sarah Bates


I am sick of the rain that fell.

I killed that man. I wash my sheets
every morning and watch Pat Sajak
and honeysuckle spin. I bury
hemlocks into my palms when my mother says
it was a bad dream.

I burn the whole earth
into my right shoulder.
I retrace my steps in the front yard
to heal my knuckles
to the throat
of a man
who believed my body
was only meant
for listening to the wind.

It’s how he rowed
across my fields,
ate his eggs over easy
the next morning.

How I searched my mother’s jars
of grapevine for the old scent
of orchids,

but all I could remember
was how many bees
I’d killed that spring.

It’s the way he dragged my clothes from the dryer
and I stopped thinking about God.


SARAH BATES is a Creative Writing MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in American Literary Review, BOAAT, So to Speak, The Normal School, Hobart, and Hotel Amerika, among others. She currently lives in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with her golden doodle, River.