by Jennifer van Alstyne

I picked this carpet, this beige with flecks of umber, which now slides
beneath my fingerprints as if slicked with oil, refusing to let me leave my mark.
Peruvian hair is strong. We are bred for fields and mountains, for secret dwellings
where we have become a part of rock. Daddy cannot open the door with his left hand,
twisted body holding my extra weight, my struggle. But he can’t let go.
as if it will be worse if he can’t finish what he started, what she intended.

This poem appeared in The Foundling Review in 2013