Iowa Falls by John Thornburg
By the time we calmed the cat and put the baby down
the wind that lobotomized the barn and stole the breath
from your sister’s mouth had died down to a crescent-breeze,
just half a whisper. In the morning you ached, made pancakes,
the ceiling fans wept, there was blood on your fingertips
from pimples you’d split. I could see the aftermath reflecting
in your eyes, jejune pinwheels turning. The baby cried, you
walked crooked, talked low and told obvious lies, I knew
this to be a feint, I didn’t take the bait. You had enough
hooks in me already. I wore the cat like a shadow, wrestled
with brave, honest shapes folded from sticky notes, little
cranes and balloons filling the branches of our bedroom
like autumn leaves. I did my best to destroy them.
A second wind sent the cat into a frenzy, imploded the barn
into a wild knot of wood and nail, abducted the fence, scrubbed
the flesh from the bone in your father’s forearm, dismantled
the cattle to their rudimentary components and scattered
them across seven states. I held the baby in my arms,
together we listened to the VCR’s laughter you drew little
shapes on my jeans while you daydreamed. The creek bed
crowded with tumbleweeds, the comforter crowded with
damp tissues, you said you felt betrayed like you’d planted
lilies and pumpkins grew instead, like the streets were lined
with jack o’ lanterns on Christmas morning, like you looked
under the tree and found only magpies. After the wind slowed
I found the cat upstairs, imprisoned within the bathroom mirror.
By the time we freed the cat from the mirror using hexes
we learned from phonebook ads, lulled the baby to sleep
with melodies we stole from the sides of vintage cereal boxes,
a third wind switched your wedding ring from your left hand
to your right hand, rearranged the debris of the barn
into a functioning carousel, potty trained our infant
in her sleep. It hard-boiled the eggs in the refrigerator,
wooed and married your sister and cheated on her with you,
picked you mulberries from dawn tipped trees in the distance,
dipped you low in dancefloors with disco boots and tucked you
into greasy motel beds that felt more like home than Iowa did,
the same wind that plucked my heart from my chest like an apple
from a branch, took a bite and put it back.
John Thornburg is a graduate student in the University of Colorado Denver's mental health counseling program. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Coe Review, Zouch Magazine, Blink Ink, Black Heart Magazine, and The Dirty Napkin. discofiction.tumblr.com is a blog he somewhat keeps.
