A girl's name was Heather.
So, too, the unmoved grass
around the swing set, the culvert
of small toads where she lay.
How dare she dream in starfish.
How like the convent to keep
a rooster. True: what faces
south—what stalk, what shoulder.
The end: the rock in the hand
as she takes aim. And she might do
equally well after all by hiking
or ironing. A girl can save
time by pressing both
sides of her blouse at once.