From Caffeine Destiny

SARAH LEAVES THE MIDWEST

Never the black water rippling, or the road signs bent by wind. Not the anchors, or the underpass, or the bridges we call lapses, or tentative gravel parking lots, tires filled with paper wasps. Rarely what we call interruption— neighborhood dogs in their dusty ghetto, their wilderness of bed sheets. Scarcely the stained saucers and rusted spoons, or this block, and all the houses catching fire. Never again the emptied dresses, frozen to the grass, or cavities in her teeth, humming. Seldom the difficult swimming, canals dragged for bodies every spring. Not the splinters in her mouth, or the spangles in her hair, blue as the inside of the virgin.

© Kristy Bowen 2006