She sat in a wheelbarrow, waiting.

In the outfield, you stared at the sky.

Something would strike—
a summer squall,
a baseball spinning astray.

Teachers spoke in cloaked poetry,
metaphors cast her as enemy,

her stomach stretched with
the oncoming storm.
Her naked navel, a collapsing star.

One swollen eye
saw neither side
yet sensed,
like searching hands,
what lay





all we were supposed to know.

For our questions
we were told instead
to read of Io.

How she grew

consumed by clouds
that surrounded her.

And she sat in a wheelbarrow,



One thought on “…Waits

  1. Miss Mollaproprism, you’re so creative. Thanks for the Twitter chat. 🙂 – @YeahHunter

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