Southeast Kansas Gothic

antigone-ks:

– “There was a coyote last night,” your neighbor
says. “There was a bobcat last week,” your other neighbor says. Their eyes
dart. Their hands tighten. They want so badly to be right.

– There is a dirt road called Bethlehem. You’ve never taken it. It’s
still waiting for you.

– Are the trees creeping closer to the road as you drive home from
Missouri? Do they know where you’ve been?

-There’s that old silo, the one on the farm that was lost to Reagan. It
breathes in the night, inhaling the memory of corn. It is meant to be filled.
It exists to be filled. If it isn’t filled with corn, it will fill with rage.

– The bobcat screams. It sounds like a woman; everyone says so. It sounds
like a woman being dragged to hell. You busy yourself with the dishes and don’t
ask yourself: how do they know?

– Keep the arrowheads you find in the fields. Put them in the windowsill;
they like the sunlight. They’re happy in the windowsill, happy in the sun room.
Make a mosaic on the top of the storm shelter where the last rays of the day
can warm them. Don’t hang them from the rear view window or they’ll go
searching for the hand that made them. If they can’t find him, they’ll hunt
alone.

– Leave the arrowheads you find in caves, under moss. They weren’t dropped
carelessly. They were planted. They will bear fruit.

– They have a Lovers’ Leap in Crawford County. They have a Lovers’ Leap
in Montgomery County. They have a Lovers’ Leap in Wilson County. It’s always
the same lovers. Will you make them leap again? One day you must answer.

– You can smell a coyote from a mile away; they reek like an outhouse
that ain’t been moved in a while. You know a coyote. You tell yourself that’s a
coyote.

– “That cottonwood is twice as big as it was last year,” you grumble.
Your grandparents exchange a glance. “That
cottonwood wasn’t there at all yesterday!” you say. Grandma’s hands are covered
in flour. “Has there always been a windbreak of cottonwoods??” you ask. “Oh
yes,” Grandma whispers. “Oh, yes.”

– You hit a deer. Everyone hits deer. They understand, but you must say
sorry.             Y o u  m u s t  s a y  s
o r r y

– There is corn at the crossroads. “It’s Kansas,” you think, “Of course
there’s corn. We grow corn.” But there is always corn at the crossroads. It’s
tallest at the crossroads. Our best seed is given to the crossroads; we plant
it by hand at the crossroads. We pat the little mound of earth at the
crossroads to seal the bargain at the crossroads.

– The Verdigris knows. It has held ages of hunters, warriors, lover, and
families in its curving arms. It has smiled upon newcomers. It has been
poisoned with blood and bone and debris. Sometimes it shrieks when you walk its
banks. Sometimes it sings. Do not touch the singing water.

– Do not whistle the old hymns as you pass the homestead. They crave the
old hymns. Seventeen were found under the cabin. Twelve were left there. No one
to claim them, no one to bring them home. No rest in the soil of their birth,
no tears to wash them clean, no hymns to sing them to peace. Do not whistle the
old hymns as you pass the homestead.

– It screams. You close the door; there is no lock. “A bobcat,” you tell
your child. “In my room?” she asks. Your hand tightens on her shoulder. “A
bobcat.”

*

(thanks to @37-hours for beta-reading!)