Anna EvansAFTER THE SURGERYI shuffle up to Turtle Parkon April's first fine day. So weak. Bruises flower along the stitch trail left five days ago. My bitch cocks her head; my chained gait puzzles us both. The cherry blossom tussles each branch to pink against the cold. If I am limited by the world in reach, these streets map out my jail. Green grass overruns the pale, like creepers softening the bars through which the prisoner sees the stars. I must turn homeward soon; the cost of breaking out is charged by frost— death of the first buds. This is how spring primes the over-eager bough. |