the scorched earth is also my hands, terrains
haphazardly transforming. it is this dirt that creates me,
like the fracking drills i penetrate the now ruined surface of my body,
my tears salinized water. on my skin only violent dust remains.
we are bottomless bodies; we sink towards the ore that slowly drains
into light, into death. this is the endless origin: a cornfield muddy
with fire, smashed beer cans and condom wrappers, all those necessary
becomings. where another dead kid or the pure murk of burning rivers, all veins
pulsing, means that somewhere else we get to keep living.
and we are suddenly more than ourselves in the dollar store
parking lot or when slipping quietly up to the well with a boy, a rock formation
where your body becomes more than body in the moments after stealing
from the earth or fluorescent shelves or from your core.
you never wanted it, any of it. to think there is any such thing as reclamation.
Madeline Augusta Turner is a cosmic cowgirl who lives in Northampton, Massachusetts. Her writing -- shaped by her ever-growing community and her life at the intersection of industrial decay and endless cornfields -- can be found in DEAR Poetry Journal, Hecate, Rejection Letters, Stone of Madness, and others. Say hello anytime on Instagram @madelineaugusta or on Twitter @soilslut.