– Laressa Dickey –
Even in her long shadow she won’t dance. If the din of what moves moves. The fort where she laughs and what fills. You I’m sorry I can’t touch. He is 10. His grandfather mumbles about the fish. A rubber tree. I remember something when I come here. Magnolia, an old woman’s sour linens. Grandmother’s neighbor, Katherine. All this work in life, nailed to a white wall, outlined, but what flower does it smell like? This messy life not branded. How does it keep dividing? Instead of a division, say, this coat is heavy.