Across the Bluegrass

Across the Bluegrass


I. Landing in Indiana
Space would be the main thing.
Whether Midwest or Farwest,
whether Galaxy A1-52 or A1-53.
in both, there is “a terrible waste of space.”
The road’s always straight,
that immaculate emptiness,
as if the radio advertised tornadoes.
The country’s level as Saturn’s rings,
flat and limitless . . . and with
alternating strips of quicksilver water,
harsh green corn and Jupiter’s hurricane eye
above half the sky thin as nebulous clouds.
After the winter solstice, you hear
the most lonesome space sounds
pulse across the galactic plane
of cold December fields in stubble
to make the prairie hawks wheel
in the hateful black space
like swaying Acrius of Babylon
in the whirring wind, hunched
from the moaning of alien corn,
ears an oracle white, listening,
blinking kernels into being,
growing taller, simply obeying.
They’re seemingly, the creatures
waiting forlornly in the fields
as if this is the somewhere,
the “something incredible,
waiting to be known,” and us
ignorant not of what we may find,
but of what we have found.


Copyright © 2015 by Megan Gieske. Originally published in n  Parnassus 2015 Chronicle on February 26, 2015, by Taylor University. Published in Across the Bluegrass on April 25, 2015, by the 2015 Kentucky Poetry Festival, and in The Asbury Review on, May 1, 2015, by Asbury University.

To read the second and third segments of “Sharing No Language but Light,” purchase Across the Bluegrass.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s