Ludlow, Colorado
by Madison Etheridge

Define emptiness:
the field grows
half-dead homes
in whole-dead grass.
The clouds tongue-
kiss the horizon, both
ten feet and ten
thousand miles away.
Wooden walls rot, brick
foundations crumble—
doorways stand, generic
landscape photo frames. 
Former kitchen window
glass bakes the sun, 
holding enough heat to
burn the feet of the ghosts
headed home. 


Madison Etheridge is a junior English major at the University of Southern Mississippi. Originally from McComb, Mississippi, she lives to find adventure, pet all the animals, capture the honesty of the world in words, and drink excessive amounts of green tea. She has previously been published in the America Library of Poetry's collection Discovered and in the University of Southern Mississippi's Product 30