was our car and supplies for a Girl Scout
survival—protein bars, extra underwear, a belief
in fossil fuels. It was not like the movies.
You cannot whisper or roundhouse kick
an entrance to test for danger. They don’t wait
until you’ve tiptoed inside to take a jugular.
We scattered like buckshot when the first
scream sliced the air like a mandolin. You bobbed
on your feet like a boxer, aching to muscle through
bodies towards the orange bottled salvation
in their tidy drawers. Outside was only
the calligraphy of skid marks in the emptiest
parking lot. We let them castle, left our king
open. The grief concise. Danger closed
in like thunderheads. Is there losing
if you could never win? We ran like we could.
Frances Mac is a writer and nurse living in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have been published in Poet Lore, Lily Poetry Review, Ligeia Magazine, Glass Mountain, and others. Learn more about her work at francesmacpoetry.com.
Image: wsj.com
Check out HFR’s book catalog, publicity list, submission manager, and buy merch from our Spring store. Follow us on Instagram and YouTube. Disclosure: HFR is an affiliate of Bookshop.org and we will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase. Sales from Bookshop.org help support independent bookstores and small presses.
Heavy Feather Review 