Track

I wondered where my brothers went
those high school mornings – tying running
shoes, racing into morning fog.  I thought
they went only where they couldn’t be
seen, then stood around smoking, talking
in quick, brassy voices about girls, those
monosyllabic bodies: Legs.  Ass.  Tits.
Maybe they met up with girls. 
They could have jogged out to the fields
on Donnerville Road, laid between 
crop rows without shirts, with just
the dew-damp bodies of bold, teenage girls 
beneath them.  Sometimes I vanish the girls.  
I see my brothers, still in that field, 
pressing their faces to the ground
of our hometown, stealing morning-sleep.  
The soil holds their bodies – solid with muscle 
and soft with rest – like bulbs.  
Or, I picture them jogging
side-by-side, hips falling in unison,
as far as Mountville Diner.  Inside,
their chests thump, cheeks burn.  And I 
make myself the waitress, bring them plate 
after plate, crowd the table 
with steaming dishes.  
I fill and fatten them. 
I keep them running.

STEPHANIE McCONNELL is from Lancaster, Pennsylvania.