JOANNA TAYLOR
Poetry—'Betrayal'
      

The first month     she navigates
by an autumn moon
steers her car like a ship
through the suburbs.

The second     then the third
she hurls her anger
at the roiling earth
watches it fall.

The fourth month     she walks the tide line
of her memory
pulls from sand     something
curved and bright.

The fifth then     and she breathes
words from the papers from the streets
the air white with fog
and cold and keen as love.