She’s older now, wears
dresses
that call out siren songs and
wears eyes that poll the memories
of a ghost. The sun beckons
for her to lie in the
grass
arms splayed and eyes squinted
while tree branches sway and paint
stories on her torso. Each freckle
is a secret: here I
kissed him
down by the tracks, here I
woke up late and yielded to everything
the lake might say.
Weeds grow
all around the house,
break, dry, soak
in the rain and mud and build
a fortress around the stuffed toy left
for dead one forgotten summer. And she dances
wet with ambrosia, a
tribute to the soil
that built her, a small girl without envy,
skirting the rumble as each train flies by.