by Alison Mandaville

Remember the times you were lost? Disneyland
at the entrance to Splash Mountain. You had no idea
how fast the others could run ahead, how slow you were.
You had never been lost before. Another time,
outside the bathrooms in the center of the city. Helped
by a woman you did not know, not to panic, but you
did panic. I try not to panic. Next to the cherry
tree, a tender pink blossomed thing grafted
to the tenacious native root stock, all I can think
of is my poetry, suffering in the basement
while I admire the leaves and whine
like the last mosquito of the season. Out of blood.
Out of eggs. No where to sink the needle.

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