All the women were washing at the creek, at the sink, at a large communal basin at the center
of town. Walking back, hands tied behind their backs in bushy sleeves, they did not have
an answer to the question.
Still at the tailgate, the man asks, what part of me too do you secretly dress in each day.
The cat lady next door is sad about loving and bruises. About stones and wolves.
The collected news in a warm-weathered, republican wastebasket.
We enemy the crowds
borrowing each belief
we solidly consume.
Carly Inghram is a poet who currently lives in Brooklyn. She received her MFA in poetry from Columbia where she worked with Timothy Donnelly and Dotty Lasky. She was selected to be a Cave Canem Workshop Fellow to assist with their workshops. Her work is featured in the most recent issue of Prelude, and her first book, Sometimes the Blue Trees, is forthcoming from V.A. Press in March 2019.