by Sheree La Puma
Brush back tangles from her eyes. Allow her to sing, unmuffled.
Say nothing as she wanders. How unpredictable & new
it is to follow the night sky. Let your heart bleed silently
like a tongue that has lost its battle with the knife.
Do not panic as you watch her body lessen
its hold on childhood. Belonging cannot be traced
by the lengthening of scars carved into skin, or the winter
sun moving towards spring. Parched, not wild let her
have a year or more to make a reappearance.
Gather stones like breadcrumbs to line the path
home. Picture her rising like a sapling on the shore of a receding
lake, long-white arms reaching up/out of the morning fog.
Sheree La Puma is an award-winning writer whose personal essays, fiction, and poetry have appeared in or are forthcoming in The Penn Review, American Journal of Poetry, WSQ, Chiron Review, SRPR, The Rumpus, Plainsongs, and I-70 Review, among others. Her poetry was recently nominated for Best of The Net and two Pushcarts. Her micro-chapbook, The Politics of Love, was published in August by Ghost City Press. She has a new chapbook, Broken: Do Not Use, recently released with Main Street Rag Publishing. She received an MFA in Writing from the California Institute of the Arts and taught poetry to former gang members. www.shereelapuma.com