Woodland Trail

Like petites madeleines soaked in tea, an inspired line from Lana Del Rey, Me and God, we don’t get along, so now I sing elicits sudden memories of being raped by older boys in the neighborhood, if you could call it that, a dozen homes or so outside of town sharing mailbox posts and a common address in the form of a rural route number where everyone lived on the same private road with an actual, if unofficial, name nobody ever said since there was just the one off the highway that twisted through the woods past two ponds stocked with bass, black tar and gravel sticking to bicycle tires in the summer, snowdrifts blocking the schoolbus in the winter, all the while circling back on itself and those who tried to forget it.