she wakes on her stomach again. it hurts her back, belly swaying through
sleep. cheeks creased, shoulders eased from their sockets by hills of down
and flannel. her tongue falls from her palette and she can tell that the
day’s gonna kiss her too hard, pull at her hair, dribble juice on her
blouse, make her eat something charred with neglect.
later that night, hair fronded with sweat, she’ll pry the coal from her
mouth, determined to sleep facing heaven.
This poem was originally published in Roadkill Zen Journal v.1.08
Cynthia Croot
Cynthia Croot is a theatre and radio director, writer, and activist living and working in New York City, the Pacific Northwest and other locales farther flung. A 2007-2009 Fellow of the NEA/TCG Career Development Program for Directors, Croot is currently collaborating with Conni’s Avant Garde Restaurant, forging an international theatre collaboration among students in the US and Syria, and teaching at Whitman College in Washington State.
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