Hannah Elliott
donut inside of me
an opening to a yorkie in a fur trimmed coat
her acrylic nails click along the pavement
the donut inside of me peeks out
eyes and heart bloom together
they note the trees and the trash
the lush, green, pooped-in grass
in the colder-than-expected park,
the girl scaling a guardrail
builds an anti-playground
trailing by with the pole between her legs
she is apparently indestructible
like the freshman buying new brooms here
riding them as witches do
as if they can tame this place
just until they find out they can’t
belief is built with eyes closed
invisible angels, god’s glove in my jacket pocket
a hand I can feel but never hold
long drive back
to back to scroll and scroll to
life on earth, eating soil, eating
diane driving miles and miles to
never having something red again
something the color again
of clear and misty
something the matter with
something wrong with something
up with with
Excerpt from an unproduced play entitled “Vehicular” (click to read)
