by Christopher R. Vaughan
spikes claw trammeled sod,
where grass whistles like wind through cattails,
where dusk’s coattails are a slithering
and a disappearance. She runs where
the glint of a rumor inches into awareness,
the door shut like a gunshot, deadbolt
thrown like a gut punch, her soles pounding
timpani beats into a coda
echoed across the day. She runs
where and when she wants to—
where spring erupts into summer, where fall
withers into dark. She runs where compressors
boom through chain-linked Amory Street,
runs where she can witness the ghosts
of Franklin Park burn away in the sun.
She runs where she can be alone
with her cool breath fogging upwards
as she rounds the pond. She runs where
every whisper at the back of a restaurant
can be forged into a chant.
Where the mountain is a father
and each gust a clap on the back.
Where a blister is a badge and the flood
of endorphins a forgiveness.
Christopher R. Vaughan is a teacher and poet based in Minneapolis. His work has appeared in Amethyst Arsenic, Off the Coast, and Eunoia Review.