Sharon, Massachusetts

by Dana Blatte

After Gaia Rajan

The horizon ruptures in the shape of my name.
Dana, Dana, it calls while I sleep on my belly
in the woods. I will dream about the sky,

how it unfolds like a bruised lid, how deer
dung marks constellations in the dirt.
Later, I will drive myself across town.

I will run laps around the track until I have no more breath
to give. Every note of birdsong sounds
like it is mine. I sweat into my palms.

Nearby, there is a statue of a dead woman
and I can’t remember her name. Only that she lived
once and died between my textbook pages.

I call her Dana and wonder if she kept her promises.
Her mouth stays sewn to her cheeks. When I go
home, I shower and still smell like pine needles.

I will never be clean. I believe this so much I let
the water collect anywhere but on my skin.
At sunset, I lock myself indoors. Anyone

that knows me is dead. I am built
of stone. I bury the pretty bird under the trees.
then dutifully slice the tires on my car.

My stomach cramps. I do not sleep. I stare
at the horizon until it melts. When I die,
tell the sky I’ll dream about its name.