Abilene 

by Eric Kim

High-strung, lanky from an aversion to red meat, 
Joe Abilene barely passed grade school. Dys 
lexic. Come junior high, hardly ever unbuttoned 
his burnt umber eyes from the ground, threw 
up from anxiety when confronted. But kicked 
through biology with ease, liked chickens a whole lot. 

Loved to fish. 
On a dry day, he and his father could hike 
out to the small forest in their backyard, catch 
a few browns in the lake, fry 
them up for dinner and call it a night. 
Saved Bertie the trouble. 
A meager kitchen they had built 
together with hickory cabinets and a cramped oven, 
barely a home. 

If the air was right, crisp, the ground incubated
the carrots in their garden until they were the size
of horse knobs. Harvested well, popped
up like sweet daisies. On a dry day, Bertie could shred them
and pop them into cakes, throw them
into brown bags for Joe before the school bus arrived.
If the air was wrong and wet, cream cheese spoiled,
sediment washed away and unblanketed
the carrots, left them to turn bitter.

Such was the case with Bertie’s second child: left
the oven before it was done, four months too soon, for months to rot
in the ground somewhere before melting into soil.

Eric Kim is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Science studying English. Born and raised in Georgia, he reads Steinbeck and Proulx to ground himself while in the city.