LOVE AND TEXAS

Boys named after cities don’t live long, I said one brisk morning.
You answered with a gruff Mmm-hmm. Neither of us understanding
that Texas rips apart the soul in the way a May tornado
destroys a house, scrapwood fence, dreams.

I am better here, north of the border, and south of home.
Tumbleweeds I’ve not seen, but parking lots,
covered porches, cool sips of sweet tea.
It has become my custom to run tip-toe in fear of scorpions or dirt.

Boys named Dallas or Austin just don’t last that long, I know,
big dreams hailing from rusted-cars and unmowed yards.
Little aspirations mewing from a heap of rags in the abandoned shed.

Still there’s a fierce fate for those youngsters, toe-headed or not.
The bluebonnets will erupt in Spring and the clouds will stretch farther
than the words or a balled fist could ever outrun.

And yet, This place has become me too,
a little rough around the edges, I can dust myself off and become presentable.
Who isn’t spending their time rushing around the front room picking up
socks, rifles, or our souls?

Melissa Wabnitz Pumayugra is a writer and educator living in Central Texas. Her work has been published in Oklahoma Today, Red Door Magazine based in Copenhagen, and numerous other publications. When she is not writing, she enjoys spending time with her two children, her partner, and a cat named Murtle.