cottage core

we butter ourselves & talk about
perfect tiny lives. i bake an apple pie 
from the wet hearts of a tree bent over 
our backs. i wear rainboots even when
there are no clouds. the cows' milk
is endless & sweet. when the mirrors come
even they are warm. the face looking back
at me, not mine but a different creature 
to whom the land does not have wounds. 
i know a vision of us unspun from history 
cannot deliver us. still, sometimes, i need to pretend
all the light is soft & easy. the sun brushes our hair. 
each day we reach for an apron. a wooden spoon.
a wooden television. a wooden car to never leave.
fields that open their albatross wings.
the horses do not need to be taught 
how to ride. instead, they teach us. 
prairie grasses & tower flowers. a wooden cellphone 
incapable of answering. lately, i have 
been getting more calls than ever from unknown 
numbers. i do not answer them. they do not
leave me messages either. i let them ring.
we eat nothing but cookies all day. teeth ringing
like bells. the deer know we are friends 
& so they come & join us on our blanket.
you braid my hair with crocuses. there are 
no telephone wires. there is no road.
once in a while, a plane flies overhead. we do not
talk about it. instead we take it as a sign
to start canning. raspberry jam & pickled greens. 
sugary melon moon. a mailbox with 
with red flag up, waiting for the night to come
& read our fears aloud to the window
until his breath fogs the glass.