Indiana Summer By Margaret Schnabel

Indiana Summer

we are born knee-deep in soybean fields
the afternoon air thick with blackberries

i am skinned knees and shaky legs on a bicycle
at what point does the ink bend to form a name?

at what point does the name bend to form a girl?

the bending comes easy now. heads of cornstalks
bow to brighter, colder days and bleached bones

a boy says he loves me around a maple tree
and i swallow the bark. this is the first time.

this is not the last time. shaky legs give way to
shaky hands and bad action movies in velvet

i find myself wishing i was a sparrow’s silhouette
and spill my name to the stars every other night

at what point does the girl bend to form a moon?

today, every moment of my body strains to leave
with the setting sun, with the birds sweeping south

but i drown in sun-hardened land on all sides
and bruise blackberry, never good at picking locks.

Margaret Schnabel


Margaret Schnabel is a sixteen-year-old musician, writer and artist who wants to grow up to be a surgeon (and a poet). She currently resides in Indiana, but dreams of living in New York City and visiting the MoMA every day. Her poetry and art can be found at


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