you couldn’t tell truth from lies the grown-ups diving into story. drowning in story. plot lines running underneath childhood & plates threatening to come apart on a daily. only a matter. it takes time to learn how to diffuse a plot. repairing plot lines can get a person killed. if this were a 19th century novel there’d be death by train. we’d scan the skies for signs &
everything always meant something. one eye on the details. another on the past. another on danger. we needed better glasses. it was hard to understand what normal looks like. we try to cover one-two-three eyes to navigate narrative lanes. to figure out. if you squint
grandfather’s eye is a sparrow that points toward train tracks under his tall white railman’s hat. away from alabama & banjos. family of eight traveling by wagon from a wooden shack a broken fence a plow leaning against it. grandmother a mess of purple & blue shadows vining a sweater some she knit. knot you grandmother. you never liked thread or yarns &
you think you can outrun your life. peach orchards & coal mines. train tracks running along the river from clarksville to lamar. little boy you do not glance at wants alongside. waiting for all that to leave you behind. for futures to leave you. stop painting your face a color you do not. to see you. knot a pink housecoat cleaning
Wendy Vardaman (wendyvardaman.com), PhD, works as a web and digital media specialist. The author of four poetry collections, she served as Madison poet laureate from 2012 to 2015 and volunteers as a graphic designer for poetry-related causes and organizations in Wisconsin. Her most recent book, thread me an exit (2025), is available from Brain Mill Press.