Poem Called Margaret
—You are she who is not. Some month that summer there became a beach ball in the garden. Wedged, it were between the teeth of the fence and the trunk of an elder sunflower, it repeated the season, a melon of seeds, the failing flowering hydrangea. It was a thing. And the thing was not feeling, but the boding of a body of an inkling (O all my little pen marks)
Copyright © 2019 Kary Wayson. This poem originally appeared in Poetry Northwest, Winter & Spring 2019. Used with permission of the author.