She’s a shrinking silhouette.
The cut-away dark around her burns.
More work than sleep than fear than failing and finally
(if lucky) the taste of iron and ceasefire.
Give her a stone a stirrup a pocket of patches.
How handy. How sweet.
The drunkening cup touches her lip—too late
to rope the severing dark—too late.
Photo by Sara Rolin on Unsplash
Nancy White
Nancy White is the author of three poetry collections: Sun, Moon, Salt (winner of the Washington Prize), Detour, and Ask Again Later. Her poems have appeared in Beloit Poetry Review, FIELD, New England Review, Ploughshares, Rhino, and many others. She serves as editor-in-chief at The Word Works in Washington, D. C. and teaches at SUNY Adirondack in upstate NY.
