Sagging,
the age-old yet new
flamingo would be half dead
if it were alive.
Dug into the half-live
ground, it stands like
a beach ball
in a deflated summer,
or maybe an inflated winter.
It is hard to tell, falling
through sideways history.
I stood on the tattered
concrete and the painted-over grass
of old England or new Florida,
wondering if any young Alice
wielded the queen’s
mallet when the lawn was croquet-
trimmed enough to
put through – to cut through
the maze of white and red and black
blood dried up –
Wondering if any old
Alice has sat inside desiccating,
pouring emptiness
into a tea cup stained
by the dregs of
evaporated mercury.
Everything here is
a plastic, sagging
faded-pink only
held up by the metal
of bad knees.
The Young Writers Project provides VPR's audience another avenue to hear and read selections from Vermont's young writers. The thoughts and ideas expressed here are the writers' own and do not necessarily reflect those of Vermont Public Radio.
The collaboration is organized by Susan Reid of Young Writers Project and Vermont Public Radio.
