inside
Holly
under
may’s slow blaze of afternoon gold
she struggles past,
brushing shoulders
a disabled leg dragging
like the last link to a string of sausage
or is it the alcohol
wafting through white light, a glade
summer scent
that didn’t make the cut?
headed
down a block
the ol’ national stands, antique red bricks
sacred home to town specials
rooms by the hour
stooped
and sun-beaten,
as if in escape
escape
from tired dreams
of fresh linen tablecloths
lingering flesh prints of a stale,
all but forgotten uncle
crack-shiverings of an angel, her first born
extracted from her arms
yet somewhere
underneath, lies softness
manicured toenails
painted
with innocence
Copyright © 2001 Donna Hill
