In Between, Georgia

Rochelle Hurt


one finds a field of empty eyelids,

an orchard of four-fingered hands, split

trunks and, climbing them, a slew of awkward kids,
not quite anything

yet. One is never

twenty-six in Between—only

halfway to twenty-seven,

or five quarters past twenty-five.

The children in Between don’t feel

strongly. They wish. They wash. They lack
conviction. But one could say, their grandmothers
remind each other, they are going places.

In Between, infants turn

like clock hands in their sleep, grape toes
grazing wooden pegs, ticking crib bar

to crib bar.
                    They refuse empty spaces
and the settlement of limbs, deadly
and comfortable as even numbers.

In the hour after copper pupils emerge

in the yard, and before the green street

lamps click off below their bedroom windows,
Between’s mothers dream. They have only
ever wanted to get to This, Georgia,

or the lesser known That.

Often, they are caught

for days in the gloam of waking.