The whole world in a neighborhood,

blooming this and that. My legs

numb from lying horizontal

on the concrete slab posing

as a stoop. Nearly rotten

strawberries in a cast-off bowl


beside a statuesque rabbit

on the lawn. I had circled him

though he refused to come to feast,

avoiding accidental poisoning

by human contact, a fear, or something

unrevealed in his frozen black eyes.


This day I guess God made, hotness

and locals flicker by the fence

while I number the deaths

I’ve known of late.

I turn myself sunward

but buildings grow taller


and obstruct, taking away animals––

clouds––mirages of not sane houses.

My work uncoils midday,

no more or less disturbed when

another teenaged body-filled car

rolls down the brick laid street


voluptuously with its amplified bass

sending catbirds sporadic

towards phone lines.

I pace without lifting a limb.

I mourn.

I make myself useful.

sand hills

Evana Bodiker is a poetry MFA candidate at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her work appears in Columbia Journal, Frontier Poetry, Tin House Online, and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in Iowa City, IA and North Carolina.