The sticks. Miles from
neighbors. At the end
of a dirt road. We were
unchurched, haltingly
schooled, shoeless with
the calluses to prove it.
No cellphones, so when
a snake thick as mom’s
forearm lazily unfurled
from a cabinet, we sat
on the porch swing until
dad got home. We were
beautiful or the place put
us under an enchantment
that the torrent of passing
years washed off. Even
the sun seemed brighter
when we packed chips
and warped paperbacks
for the swimming hole.
None of our dogs had
died yet, so they ran on
ahead. Nowhere. With
nothing to do. All my life
I’ve tried to get back.
neighbors. At the end
of a dirt road. We were
unchurched, haltingly
schooled, shoeless with
the calluses to prove it.
No cellphones, so when
a snake thick as mom’s
forearm lazily unfurled
from a cabinet, we sat
on the porch swing until
dad got home. We were
beautiful or the place put
us under an enchantment
that the torrent of passing
years washed off. Even
the sun seemed brighter
when we packed chips
and warped paperbacks
for the swimming hole.
None of our dogs had
died yet, so they ran on
ahead. Nowhere. With
nothing to do. All my life
I’ve tried to get back.
LUIZA FLYNN-GOODLETT (she/her) is the author of Mud in Our Mouths (Northwestern University Press, 2025) and Look Alive (Cowles Poetry Book Prize, Southeast Missouri State University Press, 2021), along with numerous chapbooks, most recently Lossland (forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press). Her poetry can be found in Poetry Northwest, Ninth Letter, The Common, and elsewhere. She serves as a poetry editor for the Whiting Award–winning LGBTQIA2S+ literary journal and press Foglifter. She was raised in the wilds of Tennessee and now lives in the SF Bay Area with her wife and rescue dog.