Dorothy Tries
by Rochelle Hurt
—
What pilgrim shadows—
how stubbornly they tail you,
children better left at home.
The tawny stalker slinks, sour
puss following that silver marauder—
always after your heart, girl.
You are dragging
yourselves toward paradise:
one brick, one brick.
By now your feet are swollen,
the size of pomegranates,
pulsing fuchsia inside
hand-me-down pumps.
They’ll callous your feet in no time.
How cheap you look. And how long
can you carry this limp
man, throat full of straw, all impotence
and good intentions. If I could
find my heart in here, you say
to the world, searching
your basket, I could make it love you.
But all you find inside
is the little ashen dog
drooling on the sandwiches.
—
Rochelle Hurt lives in North Carolina. She is a graduate of the MFA program at UNC Wilmington, and a recipient of awards from Poetry International, Hunger Mountain, Arts & Letters, and the Jentel Artist Residency program. More of her poetry and prose can be found in recent or upcoming issues of the Cincinnati Review, Versal, the New Delta Review, and the Bellingham Review.
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