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here. at the dumb stroke of midnight. in the glass dome of roses.
the woods at the end of the lake. I was taught where to wait
patiently. to fold my hands on my lap like two sorry doves. to tie
my shoes in knots too tight to unravel. it’s incredible how the oceans
meet and trade salinity. how carbonation stings our throats, but we keep
drinking. I was never a wolf, but a girl with a red-brick house. a girl with
a bicycle made of puzzle pieces. I wasn’t a deer. I wasn’t a lamb. all my wars
with the concrete were over. I’m driving alone to everywhere I am going.
I can’t strip my skin away. my fur. my wolf teeth. yellow and dull.
Art by Maggie Nowinski.
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Sara Ryan is a third-year poetry MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University and an associate poetry editor for Passages North. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming from Tinderbox, Slice Magazine, New South, Third Coast, Fairy Tale Review, The Blueshift Journal, Yemassee, Third Point Press, Prairie Schooner, and others. She lives in the icy Upper Peninsula with her two cats.
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