Poem
MENTAL DISTURBANCES
See more.Track Loss.
Human, twist the atom
dancers so errant young
waves, those vagrant grams of loose,
cleave to the crux.
Impede. That's your part.
I tend to forget now I picked her
out of the lot, carrying food
like a gypsy.
Barefoot with the vegetables.
Balancing full wine glasses,
round bowls of soup,
rolling
eggs for the journey
to the one in the teepee
by the grove.
(Walking like a whisper,
burnt hair curling to the sun).
I plucked her and she knew less
and less of either world in my keep
choking out leave
into damp cloaks.
In roses, summer squash
peeled and split seed-raw.
Track loss.
Impede.
by Abby Lang
