The St. Leon Wind Farm

Poem by Alex Day

We pulled off the highway

because I didn’t know how to turn

the windshield wipers on in my grandpa’s truck.

Clumps of mud from a passing semi

forced me to lean over the wheel and crane to see.

Out front of the Killarney-Cartwright Co-op,

he asked me if I still thought driving was scary.

I answered,

“Sometimes,

in the last turn of a long trip

when the house comes into view.”

I swear I heard once

most accidents happen

within a block from home,

just like how murders are usually committed

by the people you love.

I am not worried I’ll be found

in a ditch halfway across the prairie;

it’s not likely.

The windmills walk towards us as we drive,

each snow-covered field another horizon escaping

People will hurt you just because you’re close.

In grocery stores,

they are pressing their fingers into the apples,

squeezing heads of lettuce until the stalks

snap underneath the cellophane.

At home, we find things rotten

and act like we’re surprised.

He checks the peach for bruises before taking a bite and the juice runs down his chin.

“You could do anything you wanted to, you know.”

Sunlight slashed apart by the turbines

freckles ditches, the blades soundless from inside.

I adjust my hands on the wheel, turn the heat down,

radio on — only static.