Cindy Veach
Here Today
I smell skunk.
I smell the briny, low tide sea
and for today count myself lucky.
I see the shape of a woman in a puddle
or a puddle in the shape of a woman—
a maiden, gazing over her shoulder,
calm, despite small birds in her hair.
I see a limb dangling from a tree
near the brick ruins of an old estate
beside the railroad crossing.
This broken branch could kill me
or the next train if I stop listening.
So much hangs in the balance.
Over there is a girl’s stocking hat
with a bright pompom
tangled up in roadside brambles.
I name it Hope. We are 60% water.
Even bones are watery. I want to keep
swimming in my own body. I name
the puddle: Forever Eternity Immortal.
The skunk smell lasts for blocks.
I name it: Here.
—Submitted on 07/31/2020
Cindy Veach is the author of Her Kind (CavanKerry Press, forthcoming), Gloved Against Blood (CavanKerry Press, 2017), and Innocents (Nixes Mate, 2020). Her poems have appeared in AGNI, Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, Michigan Quarterly Review, Diode and other journals. Cindy is co-poetry editor of Mom Egg Review. Online at cindyveach.com.
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