Gina Keicher


I show up unarmed. My pockets stuffed with barns. The animals I carry around share noise like heat. My calves share vicious longing. Some moose on the opposite side of the fence evaluates the land’s minor qualities.

When summer nears my hemisphere I put on my yellow shirt and hold dearly to the weathervane. My feet stamp the sundial. I harbor an unwavering, special faith in time as it is articulated by the sun.

The rooster’s iridescent tongue is too inexact. Copper feathers rust green. Morning’s most brazen general silhouetted on a yellow sign.

My meteorologist wears a grey vest like a groom. Notes weather like holidays. Warns against sirens. At least there is time to run from the swell that happens. Circle-shaped air. Flat ground.

The air pressure toys with the temperature, the forehead. My temples tell time by how they sweat. The machines have all hidden. How undisciplined the grass against my legs.

At last: some barometric measure of how I feel about open spaces.