Eugenie Theall A Woman’s Journey
I was a shelf of unread books, the Easter bonnet on the snowman, the squeal echoing in the swing set tube, a conch no one brought to their ear. I am the cardinal resting in grass, yellow roses burdening the picket fence, the curve in a river bend, a map pricked with pins boasting where I’ve been. I will be a dried inkwell on a cluttered desk, silver strands in a hairbrush, a lazy Susan crammed with medication, a bottled secret rolling in surf.