Writing

In Places for Hiding, or, College

Anna Mitchell ’22
Staff Writer

Red geese
living beneath the oak slats
of my aunts back porch.
and they dined together
on thursdays.
Within our walls padded by paint
if we paused and held our tongues to the ceilings
of our summer pink mouths
we could just make out their hymns
Orange blossom trains
And soup down the drain
All of your brains
Washed out in the rain
they sang, between sips of low-earth cognac
humus wines and crabapple sherry.
Then, a pause,
the fan and a housefly bzz-izz-bzz
a gosling squeaks
Can you wash out the future, too?
So I can say I’m empty of it!
when they ask me what I’ll do?