Looking over my shoulder
I was 13 when poetry found me in the library
hovering over the latest beauty magazines
wondering why I couldn’t see myself
Moma’s job had just ended, we still needed money for the past due light-bill
going to church wasn’t bad, as I recall Moma gave over every last cent paying for a miracle.
In the morning the sun rose gently, helping us with another lightless day
then it was poetry and I, stride by stride,
pain and grief, blood in the middle.
I was writing,
kindness sis. Krissy