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Poem	Omaha, Nebraska They do not sleep nights but stand between rows of glowing corn and cabbages grown on acres past the edge of the city. Surrendered flags, their nightgowns furl and unfurl around their legs. Only women could be this white. Like mules, they are sterile and it appears that their mouths are always open. Because they are thin as weeds, the albinos look hungry. If you drive out to the farm, tree branches will point the way. No map will show where, no phone is listed. It will seem that the moon, plump above their shoulders, is constant, orange as harvest all year long. We say, when a mother gives birth to an albino girl, she feigns sleep after labor while an Asian man steals in, spirits the pale baby away.
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