Caitlin Johnson
Having Never Been to the Plains
For James
I can’t conceive of Oklahoma. When I consider it, I see yellow dust smeared across a flat
expanse, everything tinged with ocher, even the sky. But in your eyes, I see the truth: brown of soil, green of grass, gold of wheat, black of tornadoes. Still I dream of a washed-out place, and you the only colorful thing, a specter in reverse.