is the woman with no children—
I’m not tall enough to see what everyone carries,
the broomsticks they hold behind their
backs.
My feet—
They haven’t taken me as far away as
I need to go, my skin and nerves
unsettled by all
this humid
air.
I crave water in the mornings and
can feel the coldness as it’s pulled
downward, can hear it as it washes
away
old blood.
I came from a family that allowed me to pray one
Thanksgiving when I was nine. Just as I have
nine lives,
when I squint my eyes, I can see the
sun through the tree limbs as a kind of
swollen eye,
bold and forgotten, but only
because it’s always been there.
Header photograph © Lesley-Anne Evans.
About the Author
