Pass the morass
of Seagram’s boxes,
the red door of Powderhorn
Pass the squirrels
in the knots of bare branches.
How many miles
have you gone? We walked
5,000 on this webbed concrete.
Pass the chimes, and the plants
pressed against the windows
looking for the sun.
The Southside Pride paper waits
on the steps of the empty
condo. Cut through McRae Park,
pass the empty hockey rink,
the empty wading pool, the playground,
the navy sweatshirt hanging on the bush.
42 crows in the soccer field
have a lot to say about where
to go. Find a way
through their moving maze.
Pass the berries
amongst the lime-green leaves, plump
as if impervious to the frost,
waiting for birds to offer
passage to fertile land
Old branch the color of dirt raises
its amputated limbs to the sky.
You chatter quickly over the rocks.
The chicken wire holds me back.
Today you are a girl at her
birthday party. Bare feet
guide you through the rocks. New blue
gingham dress, arms outstretched to the future,
green sash trailing miles and miles behind.
The tall yellow grass stands in awe
with the presence of mind to drink deeply.
Victoria Peterson-Hilleque’s poems appeared or are forthcoming in Paper Nautilus, The Montucky Review, Poppy Road Review, Our Day’s Encounter and other journals. She’s the Poet-In-Residence at Solomon’s Porch Church in Minneapolis, Minnesota where she also teaches a poetry workshop.