Catherine Anderson
She slides over The hot upholstery Of her mother’s car, This schoolgirl of fifteen Who loves humming & swaying With the radio. Her entry into womanhood Will be like all the other girls’- A
Some days I am Ana’s teacher, some days she is mine. This morning, we look through her kitchen window, The one she can’t get clean, cobwebs massed Between sash and pane. The sky is
I was in love with anatomy The symmetry of my body Poised for flight, The heights it would take Over parents, lovers, a keen Riding over truth and detail. I thought growing up would