Willie Handcart Company 1856


Father pulled the handcart today
while Clara and mother pushed.
Resting near the fire, I twist
eight-year old hands around my ankles.

Our blankets were tossed
on the trail last week;

I shiver beneath my pinafore.
Taking out scissors, mother whispers
about the shop on High Street

where she purchased them—
Cloth, the color of wild peaches,
and lace, the shade of hawthorn buds,

filled the shelves. Mother curses
Wyoming, and my shoes—tells me not
to look at my feet. Her eyes harden

like the rocks around Sweetwater River
as she snips away my frostbitten toes,
promising me a fine dress.

first published in Breadcrumb Scabs




Lauren

Today, I opened your old closet
door and my finger traced over
short pencil lines

etched in the wood;
they formed a carbon ladder
of yesterdays. For a moment,

I saw your bare feet
peeking beneath a cotton nightie,
you stood like the wispy

daisies growing near our fence.
I steadied my hand to measure your height,
checking that heels

were firmly on the ground.
Nine years ago, when the last mark
was made, your upturned face

became womanly.
Flaxen hair intertwined with darker
strands about your temples,

a childhood of tea cups
and daisy kingdoms were swept
into the curtain hem.

Your blue eyes leveled with mine--
and nothing between us
looked the same.


first published in Flutter Poetry Journal


Karen Kelsay is a native Californian who spent most of her childhood weekends on a boat. Her husband is British, and she travels to England regularly to visit family and to get inspiration for writing her poetry. She received a Pushcart Prize nomination in 2009, and is the author of five chapbooks.