Brownleaf, Indiana

 

 

Where all the houses look sleepy and fake like blown up dollhouses pretending to be real ones, and all the people inside perhaps dolls pretending to be real people, too: this is Rubia’s first thought as they pull in to their new house, having moved from California to a place she’s never heard of or seen on a map.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, where sprinkler heads sprout from birdbath lawns like snake skulls.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, with their new backyard a wide open wilderness.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street: the mild mild west. Domestication. Golf clubs and PTA meetings.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, where their sloping roof will shed a zillion tiles come fall.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, where during a blackout by candle light kids will dance in the street.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, and all the fences leaning, tilting toward winter.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, counting faces curling round curtains.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, with all those porch swings squeaking secrets.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, where every weather vane will eventually rust away.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, all the cracked sidewalks, like veins, sifting blood through the city.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, where they will finally be a family.

 

1713 Gypsytea Street, where everything will gleam.