You walk by a woman stooping in her front yard

and don’t see her.

A mother, generic, she is pulling up weeds

while speaking patiently to a child.

 

If you’d seen this woman last night, you’d know:

she was in bloom, her hips had it all,

her legs were earthquakes on the dance floor.

If you were seeing her now

you’d know: her powerful arms

lift out loads of yellow sourgrass,

her voice spins a shield around the child.

 

You round the corner, slender hip swaying,

and don’t see

how the woman rises to her feet,

kicks lavender buds from her sandals,

watches you disappear.

Meg Yardley

You Walk By

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ISSUE 96
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