Now and then,
a wry moment regards time
with irreverence.

These nights,
I sit and wonder
if every passing car
carries me to death.

A subtle voice
from over the hedges,
or just a sparrow in the night.

Every trauma is strikingly real
and flies on sticky wings
between the narrow cages
of my chest.

I know where you perch
when the sparrows fly.

©2013 Jessica Stephenson All Rights Reserved


About inpotentia

Hold Fast.
This entry was posted in Domestic Violence, Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to

  1. Kyle Pogue says:

    Sometimes a line of yours hits me like lightning. The first verse of this did it. Very good piece.


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