V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics





I follow a pig truck 
down I65 redolent with spring. 
Truckers roll their winter sleeves. 
Dandelions mug from the berm. 
Only the trees hold out, arms up 
full of waiting.  Not one green blush 
among them.  Still, they must know, 
swaying like sisters gathered in a kitchen 
remembering the dance. 

I head south to the woods 
ten miles north of the Ohio River 
to walk where I walked in a bad December, 
leading my footprints down to the lake, 
sending my breath like icy ghosts 
into the brush looking for my mother. 

Today I return, looking for myself, 
hoping, if nothing else, my shoes 
will find me, divining in dirt 
for the sole's zigzags, last seen 
wandering in snow, repeating themselves 
like first sounds over and over, mama mama.

© by Alice Friman


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