Runny Pantoum
Her shoes ran before she did,
before her nose started.
The purse strap smacked her lips so
her lips smacked back.
Before her nose started,
she was running down an empty alley.
Her lips smacked back
at the vacancy on her tongue.
She was run-down, and empty. A lie
or something silly nagged at the back of her throat,
at the vacancy on her tongue.
The night air was thick as plot and treacle.
Something silly nagged at the back of her throat.
Someone named Allie yelled about how
the night air was thick plot, and treacle.
Streets were starting to sound like names.
Someone named Alley yelled about how
running girls make a nice street run-down.
Names were starting to sound like streets.
A large man in cargo shorts nodded.
Running girls make a nice street run down
and up and away and into other streets.
A large man in cargo shorts nodded.
There was a hefty smell around the corner.
And up and away and into other streets
she ran—through stop signs and glares and brick walls—into
a hefty smell around the corner
that yelled about her future.
She ran—through stop signs and glares and brick walls—into
the purse strap: it smacked her lips,
yelled about her future.
Her shoes ran before she did.
About the Author:
When she isn’t eating pasta or talking about pasta, Grace enjoys spending time with her family in northern Virginia, where she lives.
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