somewhere between shame. and the hornet’s nest. i unroll
my stockings before church. nylon that cannot forgive.
the sharp of thumbnail. or the clumsy angles. my foot
makes on the way. to reinforced toe. there is not enough.
flounce in the world. for my mother. my body under. her
creative direction. a bolt. wound tightly. with tulle.
above church door. hornets. plotting their revenge
on a lawn of sweet-spined aphids. in the quire. nineteen girls
in robes of hyacinth bloom. a few boys. and Martina.
the two of us altos. two rows in. playing tic tac toe.
on the back of church bulletin. my x drawn a few o’s away from
the sick & shut-in. at her first win. Martina grabs my hand.
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