by Jenny Sadre-Orafai

I miss being a small girl so I braid my hair.
I stop watching this country on a tear. I climb into
the crown of our tree like it’s a lighthouse. Driving
into neighborhoods at night, I wait for Christmas lights.
The energy it takes to make each bulb turn red or green, heat
flooding a circle. I like the blinking ones and hang onto
my breath when they go blank. I clap when they come back.
Coming back from a wreck feels like eating an orange like an apple.
An outline of my face on the airbag. Bruises sitting in my lap.
I can’t forgive people who drive by without slowing down
to see how hard I’ve tried to keep everything alive.
Everyone fed and bathed. Wading into a cave is one way
to get clean after you’ve been crushed against a wheel.
I’m breaking sandstone in my fire hands, smuggling in light.

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Jenny Sadre-Orafai is the co-author of Book of Levitations and the author of Malak and Paper, Cotton, Leather. Recent poetry appears in Cream City Review, Ninth Letter, The Cortland Review, and Hotel Amerika. Recent prose appears in Fourteen Hills and The Collagist. She is co-founding editor of Josephine Quarterly, Professor of English at Kennesaw State University, and Executive Director of Georgia Writers Association.