Setting is
the lie. Where I am, no one can
get to—that
is true—but there is no physical
ocean keeping
others from finding me. I live on
open farm land.
There is little to do here, so few
bother coming—
though all roads overlap at my
doorstep.
Sometimes, to fight the quiet,
I talk to my
selves, as though we were sisters.
This makes
loneliness easier to carry from bed
to kitchen,
where I make coffee and read past
notes written
on top of the news. It will be hot
today. Like
yesterday. Too boring to not drift
back to the red,
lettering. Zoophile the paper-
boy has written,
sure that I won’t call his boss to
complain. He’s
correct; I say nothing about this
to anyone. Learned
years ago it only draws attention
to the story. I haven’t
had an animal on the property since
Odysseus died.