Three Miles Out
Ellie sits in the kitchen, peels an orange
then breaks the sphere into wedges.
She sits there naked, but it is late at night
and no lights are turned on.
She sits with her hair in a long braid
in the french style.
Ellie sits there as the nightly inversion
pushes cool air through the open, August windows.
She sits there waiting for ghosts to arrive at the table,
but none show up, nor can her imagination
conjure faces at the moment.
She sits feeling the clock tick,
a regular thud against her ribs,
and knows her flight back to Iowa
will be an empty staring contest.
Ellie sits there and envisions
the church spires that tower over her home town,
the points of the gothic arches that lead the eye toward heaven
and the grayed wooden pews in need of oil.
She sits and stuffs an orange wedge into her mouth
and the squirt of juices from her bite
registers how quickly the barn and house
vanished in a whirl of splinters
as the tornado tore through her parents’ farm.