by Dina Strasser
I want to be a cider house. I want to be drunk and hold the apples of generations. I want to be a chicken coop because one side must be fully paned fully open to any light. I want to be a potato cellar. Warm, long and low. A house for people cut off at the knees . I want to be nowhere near the manse. I want to seem to serve singular and unlinked out in the rape fields, horses pacing in the hot walker in the morning mist as if alone. I want to be an old log corn crib. Cradling the seeds to sleep. Arms wider than my feet, to shed the rain. ____
Dina Strasser teaches English to K-12 students who speak other languages. Dina serves as a reader for LongLeaf Review and the ISLE (Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and the Environment) Journal of Oxford University.