For me
I do not live in trust’s house.
Hope is not a bike lock.
I wake suspicious
and slink about the kitchen;
an intrusion,
a tripped wire,
not my fingerprints on the glass.
The window boasts
a view, a tree
a host whose marrow
feeds bugs feeds me.
I can live in your ambling countenance,
your branched bareness painted
behind, above, around
the sparrow, her eye;
the lichens, the lie
that this place is not for me
that life isn’t a painting set spinning
over the backdrop of the song you sing while you sweep.
Sharon Engel
Sharon is sifting through the stars and soil to concoct a life of attention and expression. They are a singsonger, land worker, poet, and decaf coffee convert. They have many questions, many ideas, and an undying love for ice cream. Born and raised in central Pennsylvania, they now reside in Philadelphia. This is their first published writing piece.