Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Three

Jenn Blair

Town Skirts

The girl with the fake nails places her change on the counter, moves out the two pennies and aligns the dimes like twins. Give her what she has desired. Send her out into the cold night. These streets bear the brunt of the sadness. Our discontents hurtling round dark curves, the worried creases of map hastily drawn by a hand that barely knew its own home. It's the green house on the hill. The one whose children grew up hearing whistles of trains, and walked the sharp grade to the trestle to see their own hearts flying fast right underneath them, at a speed that makes the dandelion the color of sun and the blue that rolls on in the back of the mouth when a beautiful song is done.