Old Bardstown
Ellen Hagan

the wind whips hard electric, exhausted. it’s old bardstown, it’s country high-way, little boys with corn colored hair, it’s mud-filled sundays and saturdays, it’s the am and fm coming through, no tapes, no cd’s. just open tar dividing trailer from beat-up truck, from doberman, from rusted up swing-set, from me. never did tell you i drove fast to get to you, peeled wide though every curve, my foot stayed gripped through whitney stables, american flags whipping viciously, crooked mailboxes, white crosses dotting front lawns, jesus statues. never did tell you i said hail mary 21 times, your name tripping space between, past the virgin who was warning me. never did tell you i could’ve loved you, might’ve, tried to, real bad. oh, i wanted to, spread all 5 fingers out on the table next to your luke warm and weak tea. tell you my love woulda been bigger than any river you’d ever catch crawdads in. wanted to spell it out thick and wide across from your smile, from the artichoke dip we ordered, the food neither one of us ate, country ham, wheat bread, garden tomatoes, mayonnaise spread heavy. i only ordered to act like there was any space next to my heart for food.

© Ellen Hagan