Where did they go,
those whose frayed gingham curtains
still snap in November winds,
whose kitchen table is still set
for the men to come in,
whose house still stands
in the silence of a drawn breath?

Where did they go?
In the fields, glass bottles wink
in the sunlight like water.

Where did they go?
Those singers of the season’s change,
low chants rising from the yellow fields,
their tobacco left drying
in the decaying wooden barns
tattooed with graffiti and time,
and now harboring a murder
of crows.

Where did they go?
Dust felts the floorboards
and furs the Sunday dishes.

Where did they go?
Guardians of the rusted metal tractor,
of the fifty pound feed sack
and the trampled grey dirt.

Where did they go?
Did they read this end in the tea leaves
still clinging to their cracked white cups?

Zetetic separator

Jordan Taylor grew up in a small town in the American South, where she was raised on equal parts Jesus and fairy tales. She is a recent graduate from North Carolina State University, where she received her bachelor’s in Creative Writing. She currently lives in NYC with her husband Kenan and their corgi, Ein. You can follow her at pullingroomstogether.wordpress.com.

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