The St. Leon Wind Farm
Poem by Alex Day
Art by Debbie Liang
We pulled off the highway
because I didn’t know how to turn
the windshield wipers on in my grandpa’s truck.
Clumps of mud from a passing semi
forced me to lean over the wheel and crane to see.
Out front of the Killarney-Cartwright Co-op,
he asked me if I still thought driving was scary.
in the last turn of a long trip
when the house comes into view.”
I swear I heard once
most accidents happen
within a block from home,
just like how murders are usually committed
by the people you love.
I am not worried I’ll be found
in a ditch halfway across the prairie;
it’s not likely.
The windmills walk towards us as we drive,
each snow-covered field another horizon escaping
People will hurt you just because you’re close.
In grocery stores,
they are pressing their fingers into the apples,
squeezing heads of lettuce until the stalks
snap underneath the cellophane.
At home, we find things rotten
and act like we’re surprised.
He checks the peach for bruises before taking a bite and the juice runs down his chin.
“You could do anything you wanted to, you know.”
Sunlight slashed apart by the turbines
freckles ditches, the blades soundless from inside.
I adjust my hands on the wheel, turn the heat down,
radio on — only static.