the past is there without faces
I try to carry water in a cotton dress
lose the family album
run away to join the circus
in every version the house burns down
it is a few weeks before Easter I walk to the park
I am not thinking where I am going
all these years no one has asked how it feels to hunt
and not find
it is hard to dream of my grandmother’s face
how long can I carry an empty basket before
setting it down
the geese circle their vapid shadows on the sidewalk
I am alive perhaps that alone has worth
faith is a series of locked doors
voice of a siren
my dumb prayer to feel
all the knobs are hot
carry water in a cotton dress
the house burns down
Emily J. Cousins lives, teaches, and writes in Denver, CO. Her poems have appeared in, or are forthcoming from, The Laurel Review, Axolotl, Palaver, Word Riot, Saltfront, the Sugar House Review, [PANK], and elsewhere.
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