Chelsee Ivan

fallow (2019)

Looking out the window at passing farms and their fields, the rows move like waves, hypnotizing and impossible not to dream to. It seems as though nothing ever changes around here, except for me. I feel as safe hiding in the middle of a fallow field as I do hiding in the giant expanse of my mind. Each vast and lonely, with the same shade of ice blue. It’s how I’ve always framed things, small and in the middle.

Everything moves me—cold hands pressed on vents in my car, hoarfrost clinging to power lines, old hay bales melting. When I pass a dead animal on the edge of the road I repeat five times, “Please go to heaven.” When I pass a graveyard I cross my fingers on each hand and wonder, “Will everything be okay?

How can I stay here and continue to grow?

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