Author: Lauren Mirs

like a speckled egg
night blindly cradles the earth
waiting to be born

geese fly through thick mist
like rows of ghostly stitches
quilting the night sky

young birch stretches tall
breathing like a scared rabbit
all shadow and light

Takeover

This parking lot
hasn’t seen a car in thirty years
Prairie grass grows four feet tall
heaves concrete out of its way
without asking
Who else knows about the blackberries ripening here
besides the sun
Next door, graffiti bellows
WORLD IN TROUBLE
a slow revolution
clover and bindweed spill across pavement
chicory, joe pye weed seep into the streets
and those grasses four feet tall
flood the neighborhood with prairie
until it covers the city
until it covers the earth
waving with every gust of wind
this empty lot’s
only chance at freedom

On the Way to Arcola

On my way to Arcola, IL, I had seen a speck on the map called Chicken Bristle, and I set out to find it. I thought it would be fun to take a picture of the city limit sign. I think I found the town, although I never saw any sign. A cluster of houses sat where the speck had been on the map, an island in an ocean of cornstalks. The roads near Chicken Bristle were paved and one-lane, set in a grid. The cornfields flanking each path created almost a tunnel effect. I wondered what would happen if a car came from the opposite direction, but I never found out. Sometimes, when I dream, I’m walking down that same blacktop, protected by armies of corn. My footsteps make no sound. The corn is always green, and it is always summer.

The Chicken Cheats

Several summers ago, I went on getaway weekend to Arcola, Illinois. The biggest attraction there was Rockome Gardens, which was basically a theme park about Amish culture. [Sadly, this attraction closed.] There were the actual gardens, which may have been pleasant except for the photographer parent trying to get a perfectly posed shot of his two-year-old. “Kayla, come over here. No- stand right here. Don’t move. Now look at me. Kayla, look at Daddy. Kayla. Kayla! Look at Daddy. Kaaaaylaaa. Kayla, turn this way. Look at me. Look at Daddy. Kayla, look over here. Look at Daddy. Kayla. Look at Daddy.” There was a museum, a barn with farm animals, a woman who demonstrated weaving on a floor loom (and who let me try it), and a souvenir shop filled with canned green beans, homemade fudge, and other old-fashioned edibles. I paid extra to take a buggy ride with an actual Amish driver. It was here that I played tic tac toe with a chicken. Yes, the chicken won. Twice. I knew it would. But let me tell you something: the chicken cheats.

The game was in a box about the size of a vending machine. Half of it displayed the electronic gameboard and instructions, and the other half housed a live chicken. The poor thing was panting in its little plexiglass enclosure. Part of me didn’t want to participate (and encourage housing chickens in plexiglass boxes during summer). But when would I get another chance to play tic tac toe with a chicken? Novelty won in the end.

I fed my money into the machine. The rules state that the chicken goes first. Once the game started, the chicken hid behind this partition, but I was spying on it to see how it operated. It would peck at this button until a kernel of corn dropped down a chute. The chicken’s move would register on the gameboard. After gobbling up the corn, the chicken would peek its head underneath the partition and stare at me with one eye until I pushed a button to make my selection on the gameboard. Then its head would disappear underneath the partition and the pecking would start again. On the second game, after the chicken made its first move, I put my finger out toward the game board, but I hesitated. As I was deciding which button to press, the chicken took another turn. She probably didn’t cheat intentionally. Oh, well- she would have won anyway. [The strategy of having the chicken go first is orchestated so that the best an opponent can do is tie.] If you ever get the chance to play this game, be warned! Those chickens will try to get away with anything!

Photo: twined rug

Fling the Chicken

My mom lives a five-hour drive from me. Sometimes, on long weekends, we’d meet halfway for an Adventure Weekend. Usually, we’d stay in a cheap motel in some town that’s a tiny dot on the map, surrounded by a lot of space. We’d spend our days exploring the area and visiting other tiny towns nearby.

It was one Memorial Day weekend that we discovered Princeton, Wisconsin’s annual Rubber Chicken Fling. The event takes place in the city park. A goal post is set up, and everyone in attendance is invited to try flinging a rubber chicken through it. Whoever throws it farthest wins.

The emcee kept urging us to join the action. “If you’ve never chucked a chicken, now’s your chance!” The mascot, a man dressed in a bedazzled Elvis jumpsuit and a chicken head rubber mask, mingled with the crowd. We had dozens of chances, and neither of us touched a chicken. Why not?

My regrets are all the same: a long list of things I didn’t do, things I didn’t say.

Months ago, when I began seriously forming the idea of a nation-wide road trip, I thought about what the purpose would be. I didn’t want to just stay in hotels and visit tourist attractions; I wanted to experience a transformation. One day, an answer suddenly came to me: Fling the chicken.

It’s the same advice I’d give my younger self: Get involved. Try everything. Go everywhere. Take every opportunity. Fling that chicken while you’ve got the chance!

The Power of Love

It’s almost February, which means…Valentine’s Day is coming! A lot of people seem to hate Valentine’s Day. I don’t have this issue. I like to buy those packs of cards made for kids to pass out to their classmates, only I give them to coworkers, friends, and family. It doesn’t matter what your relationship status is; love encompasses so much more than romance. Think about the bond between a parent and child, between siblings, between friends, between a mentor and student, and the respect a fan has for a great artist or genius. When I got lice in sixth grade, my mom nitpicked my scalp. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is. Valentine’s Day gives you a chance to acknowledge people for the love they have added to your life, even if your life doesn’t resemble a romance novel. The best part is, I’ve seen V-Day Haters convert to valentine givers after receiving one of these silly valentines. As Huey Lewis said, that’s the power of love.

Clarinet in Repose

Instantly transported to the last weekend in May
driving through tiny towns
old-fashioned main streets
dilapidated and peeling rust
singing songs whose copyrights have expired
lilacs seduce the air
black cows sprinkled like pepper across lush green hills
godlight
drenches the valley
the sky fills the whole world
a revelation
like when I first heard this song