Julia C. Alter hails from Philadelphia and has found home in the woods of Vermont. She is a social worker, birth doula, and conscious dance facilitator, among other things. Her poems can be found in Wag's Revue, Rose Red Review, and Clementine Unbound.
Hawking the wind and the wings it sends careening,
breathless descent from a high school bedroom
while the rest of the town yawns, drools a little, rolls over.
Displaying the goods: a skinny dip, a sunrise, a swing.
Doesn't swing say as a child, squealing? You knew
when you jumped you'd be flying for as long as you could
trick yourself. Only then you’d twist your ankle.
Presenting the trinkets: a pack of cigarettes, a jumbo box
of condoms, a handle of dark liquor,
a dark man's hands. A formula
Release, surrender, send pictures from an island in the sun. Run.
There is little here that doesn't cost a fortune teller.
A girl smokes on her doorstep
on Route 25, scratching
butterfly-tattooed wrist, dreaming all the ways
she might erase herself.