• Lammergeier Staff

The girl at the gas station has blood in her mouth | McCaela Prentice

 

I pray for small things

like chips in the next aisle

and for lipstick on her teeth.

 

I imagine it looking black on the laminate

in the damning fluorescent

but nothing falls from her or far

from where you held it. I want to look

at a map of all the places I have bled:

 

on Wharf Street dizzy from a tall pour ;

in Brooklyn onto sheets already stained;

on the walk home from Rosie’s with it

pooling in my palms.

 

There are no words

for when pieces of us leave but I need

to name the places I have left them.

 

Grief is a thing that does not sleep;

that gnaws at the bones that cradle it.

 

I drop change on the counter

And walk out in hurry;

It is never far from where it left you.

 

 

 

 

McCaela Prentice is a Maine writer that recently graduated from St. Lawrence University. Her poetry has previously been featured in Ghost City Review and Honey & Lime Literary Magazine. She was also an honorable mention in the 2019 Small Orange Emerging Woman Poet Honor.

 

Twitter: @mccaelaa 

Instagram: @mccaelaa

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