Mercedes Lawry, “Stuck”

I’ve not gone green without a mouth
leafed out, all bending stalk
like a supplicant. I’ve not gone
quick as a thin moon into a sleeve of cloud,
night measured by unsaid prayers.
I’ve not gone godforsaken and down
in the dust, arms akimbo, mimicking
a fossil. I’ve not gone grace-spoiled
or glad into the fields of catastrophe,
eager for wounds or miracles.

 

 

 

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