Hartland, Wisconsin

by Krista Marie DeBehnke

​I remember the August air was sticky,
and clung to our skin like nylon.
We tried to escape it, weaving
through corn fields and barns
off County Road H, stopping only
to look skyward and feel the quiet
I have not felt since.
I wonder what made us so
restless. Moving to cities
where we expected something better
never arrived when I traded cottage doors
for elevators in the city. Sirens at night
were once horror, now mundane,
and I worry because the worst
had always been a coyote near the dogs
in the yard. Maybe I could breathe easy
if I saw you in those jeans with the hole
in the knee, and I wonder if you feel the pull,
the weight, the constant needle-prick memory--
reminder that you’re not where you should be.
That night when we stood
with bare feet on grass,
I should have memorized the lines
on your knuckles, the distance between
our shoulders side by side, the sound
of your voice as evening inched
into morning.
​