In the darkness of the city a weapon clatters to the pavement.

Nobody listens.

The traffic clamours.

Always.

She was once moon-eyed and young, trying

Her wings.

Now, in a dark alley, a middle-aged woman lifts up her tear-stained

Face and is dragged behind the rubbish bins,

Into the shadows.

She lies amongst the rotting rubbish, she does not dare to breathe

Or move.

She listens.

The whole world leans back toward its own darkness,

And she leans into hers.

© Kim M. Russell, 2016

Image found on Pinterest

My response to imaginary garden with real toads Play It Again, Toads

For Play it Again, Toads, where archived challenges of the Imaginary Garden come to life again, I have chosen Grace’s James Wright challenge from December 2014, which is to write a new poem or prose poem in response to…

I’m Not Moving
by Linda McKenney

Between the ages of eighteen and sixty-six, I moved eleven times.

From childhood home to grandma’s house when I married

To first apartment

To a different apartment

To grandma’s house

To our first home

To an apartment when I got divorced

To the home of my second husband

To a twenty-four-foot recreational vehicle

To an apartment

To a home in Tennessee

Just the thought of this list exhausts me. But not enough to prevent the eleventh move.

From Tennessee to a home in New York State.

We loved living in Tennessee. I remember when we first arrived, knowing no one, I had some trepidation. We’d left a rich life back in New York. Could we recreate it here? I remember thinking, “If I die in Tennessee, will anyone attend my funeral?’

We did make friends. Lots of them. And we acclimated to a somewhat…