Poetry: Cheap Beer by Nathan Lipps

Photo by Adam J. Gellings

If there is less rain this year
or if the grain prices get goofy
because a couple dudes

want a bit more
more farmers will kill
themselves easily enough.

We are rarely taught
to speak of it
if it hurts.

To listen for the wind
to die down so we can
spray the fields free

of life unwanted, yes,
but to hear a voice lost
and looking is the static

of a universe that slams
our prayers against each other
without a sound.

Taught, each one of us, to use
the many guns we grew up with
like shovels or pitch forks.

Taught how to be safe.
Not to point them
at each other

or ourselves.
The danger understood, respected even
learned and tucked away for another day

when we’re older and caught
in that self-built trap of love
when the rain is slow

and billionaires drink
that good shit on the moon.

Nathan Lipps lives and works in the Midwest.

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