Evening

Andie and I drink iced cider and smash mosquitos 

Heat hotdogs in the microwave and peel pine needles off the soles of our feet

Cotton sticks to us like scotch tape and death 

Sleep is a blistering purgatory, the creek howls, moths grow wickedly giant in the shadows

The sun rips through a broken sheet of aluminum mesh

We laugh, tap water in the milk jug, juice in the fridge, and ice in the shed box 

Bugs or chicken pox, we ask each other, I guess we'll see

Life here crawls, a whirlwind of anxious panic that settles daily beneath the lakebed 

When the sun sets, the fish fly, the one thing we want to bite won't

We trade easy breathing for sun cups and elevated river banks 

In the morning June gives way to full-grown summer and a sooty moon 

Our flowers dry up, sage and oak nip our kneecaps 

Wild onions cross the bridge, trampled by pack mules, shaded by quartz 

We are not picky women, we can't afford to be

One set of towels for the half year, two pairs of good hands for the whole

Determination is staying awake long enough for evening air to cleanse the shop talk 

Good morning if we care to say it but the uneven thump of work boots replaces an exchange 

The buzz of power slowly hums and halts, I am reduced to being human again

In the backcountry, they roll up bodies like tin fish

Sometimes we eat bread with cheese and fruit, sometimes dirt

We wash when the sun sets, but the shower coins are slippery, and we are tired 

So we drink iced cider and smash some more misquotes instead.