The house is hardly white. Hardly standing
in the corn. My daughter peers in the only
unbroken window. Kids with rocks have been
coming here for years. To talk about the woman
whose husband no longer loved her. An ax
and a grave in the pantry floor. Once we rode
our bikes. Stood in this field while Matt read
from the Bible. Her ghost came after us
with a scream. Buried under flour dust and salt
it was too late for salvation. Once my daughter
asked me why the bad stuff always happens
to girls. Today she kisses glass.
BETSY JOHNSON-MILLER’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Alaska Quarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, Boulevard, Agni (online), Mid-American Review, and Cortland Review. She lives in Minnesota with her husband and two children.