Maybe the Salt is Sleeping

she says this between sips of tea
an answer to all that is missing—
empty beaches and not a lick of salt
scent hovering in the air 

maybe, I wish out loud,
knowing perfectly well what is missing—
a March weekend at the shore
can’t bring back the curl  

of her small back
fingers searching
for sea-shell shaped summers
steeped in August heat 

don’t spiral in to yourself
nagging thoughts beg and plead
but I keep this wintered, too
not wanting to be the undertow

dragging her deeper—
what is expectation, anyway,
a pull in the wrong direction
shrinking shores along scentless seas

The Cost

I found running way back when, ice-cream substitute for esophageal pain, punishment for any girl attempting to swallow joy in chunks meant entirely for others—running from bile in the bowl, that
ever-ballooning nothing inside me.

Miles ribboned themselves, dirt roads paved my heart into pounding breath—Pause and Hold the
very exits where air whooshed in panicked escape, blurred feet missing messages central to my
being, the word “still” a thing too costly to bear as if More meant Less—less worry less fear less
of myself imbedded near slips of cloth belted at my navel.

Sometimes though, I aligned; feet pelvis hips shoulders buffet me against the wind, even the
bounce of my hair joining that sure beat within—the pace of expansion rising through scent—the neighbors’ dryer kicking detergent faint into street, the grease-call of the garage grounding the
curbed corner, wet field musk rising with the sun tasting morning dew—pure elocution, I found
my way home scent by scent, step by step, heel touch, ball of foot, heel once again.

It’s possible then, to sweat out the past in miles; hammer ugly moments with pounding breath in metalsmith’s chasings until the toes give up their final payment—nails bruised patina shed in
increments. I mourned each loss. Hobbled forward on new skin, scripted my name in a long trail
of footprints.

The Angle of Incidence is Equal to the Angle of Refraction

A Woman’s Mind
should never be in the gutter,
or so they say,
not a chalked cue end
on a slate pool table
lining up that shit-sure shot
lingering too long at No Knees
the murky bar straddling the corner

where the moniker stands in
for “allowed to let yourself go”—
allowed to put your quarters down
ante-ing yourself in
worthy, the game of angles
and drop-pocket knocks
backspin, ricochets
lean long across your table

where then,
should the proper gal
let her mind wander
if not the high balls
or lows
vast felted expanse
shooting across that green—

the bottom of a stew pot, perhaps?
some pin-pricked stitch hole
of a husband’s happy hem?
certainly not, we answer
call the shot
drop the eight-ball
clean

Author’s Biography

Ann Fisher lives in the foothills of the Green Mountains. She is co-fiction editor for the Mud Season Review based in Burlington, Vermont. Her work has appeared in SwitchMicro, the South Shore Review, ZigZagLitMag, and About Place Journal, among others.