Holding my Tongue
I saw myself sitting on
the ground, cold, white and the sky
too, elbows wrapping knees, only I
was being played by
someone else- an Eskimo doll from
my childhood that now sits on the bookshelf
in my sister’s room. Her old one.
Winter is blowing my hair. Or
the doll’s hair, and the sound effects are
being made by the cars
whooshing by outside just
edging to the red stop sign. Sting
to your mind’s eye or
sue to your hope.
Beth Krumholz
Fall 2014
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