When fire injures, it leaves a distinctive wound | Mary Katherine Creel
Mary Katherine Creel lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where she has worked as a journalist and counselor to children and families. Her poems have been published in Paper Rabbit, Tar River Poetry, Avocet, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, 1932 Quarterly, What Rough Beast, and Nature Writing, an online poetry journal. Her poem after the thunderstorm was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
A Year on Holiday Drive
Loblolly pines pitch long shadows across brown crabgrass. Winter’s only snow, sparse and streaked with poodle piss. Easter Sunday picture poses beside a sad row of marigolds. Metal roller skate wheels etch chalky circles in the driveway. My blood, a sepia stain on granite rocks in the cul-de-sac. Shoe box entombs a partially dissected frog with cloudy eyes. Lime ice pops mark amphibious hours in algae-coated plastic pools. Baby teeth grind sand grains, water tastes loamy from the hose. Plastic gypsy mask clips the moon, copper beads on the tongue. My father finds me sitting on the curb, too tired to walk home. Spiders in a white wooden doghouse, I’m not afraid to hide.