Flyover Country, by Michael Brockley

An homage to New Harmony, Indiana

You argue with yourself over the difference between a honey bee and a yellow jacket. The architecture of their hives and nests. It’s been years since you trespassed in the belfry of the church without a roof in the village where all the cafes were named after primary colors. The Yellow Maze Bistro. The Red Harmonica. Sparkz’ House of Blues. Where does a bee’s abdomen end and its thorax begin? Where does the border between sting and stinger lie? You spent hours at the center of utopia’s labyrinth, where you feasted on shepherd’s pie and wrote poems about the Clue suspects who frolicked with Monopoly tokens. Mrs. Peacock revved the race car’s engine. Colonel Mustard wrestled a tennis ball from the terrier’s jaws. You chased will-o’-wisps through the limberlost. Besotted yourself with dandelion wine. Went astray wandering in circles. This morning, bees still reel from Mexican sunflowers to the brown pistils of autumn’s last oxeyes. Drunk and exhausted with pollen. It’s October in the flyover country. You could spend the rest of your life blossoming again. 

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