by romy rhoads ewing
i haven’t flown a kite in maybe twenty years, i say to her.
it’s like…she trailed off because there was nothing
to which to compare the comparison–
it’ll come naturally to you, she lands on.
i don’t buy it, through no fault of hers–i tell her
i don’t think that’s been true of literally
anything i’ve ever tried. she looks at me while we both
wait for something to change. crime seems to come naturally to you.
crying? my hearing is going these days. i would take either.
no, crime. can’t help but blush. i stick my feet in the snowmelt,
don't wince because the rest of the group is
watching from the shore, and the signs prohibiting
everything we’ve got are standing in place, more decorative than anything,
and i am more of a museum than a girl. maybe for good.
i get tangled in string. spill myself on the shore. find my way back.
______
romy rhoads ewing writes from sacramento, california, where she was born and raised.
her work has appeared in HAD, Oyez Review, Rejection Letters, Bullshit Lit, Major 7th Magazine, and more. she is the author of please stay (Bottlecap Press, 2024) and also edits poetry and nonfiction for JAKE. she runs the archival site SACRAMENTO DIRTBAG ARCHIVES and can be found at romyrhoadsewing.xyz.
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