#julia koets

There's a danger in comparing her to things. Her prayer, a stall of horses. Her anger, the beak of a bird. Her sleep, a sun-bleached fence. Her sadness, a yard pile of firewood.

A patch of pines is all I remember of a field. Quiet, she says. Her stick-shift sedan, her trouble with mathematics, her car radio turned up all the way. I write her questions

on a sheet of paper so no one can hear. Late at night in my blue car, we drive back roads, the only place we speak openly. The field's full enough tonight, I think, to break into a thousand wings.