Any girl is a city, really. And you run me.
Jean is my mother. All that hesitation over hard ground, and who could blame her. So many men doing dumb things with their teeth.
I think breathless because he dies that way, running; they never see one another. Yet she sees us, a nail dragged across her mouth.
All that she is capable of. All that we are.
Donora Hillard is the author of Covenant (Gold Wake Press) and other collections of poetry and hybrid text. Her work regularly appears in Hint Fiction (W.W. Norton & Company), Pedagogy, and elsewhere. The projects she has been involved in have been featured by CNN, Lybba, MSNBC, and the Poetry Foundation.
I love the first line of this. I can’t do poetry. It’s the one kind of writing that has the touch of the mystical for me. I think good writing can be learned, depending on a person’s innate ability. Poetry, however, is something else. You’re either a poet or not.