By Virginia Barrett
Let’s lie on our backs in the white room
with a prism in the window casting
spectrums on the wall. The air
pregnant with rainbows. In the orchard,
under the unharvested chokecherry tree
the red circle sleeps in its grave. Soon
there’ll be no food and we’ll grovel on
winter’s ground but for now, we are full
of color and light. So many distant
sirens for one small town, we wonder
what’s done to warrant the chase while
here, only rays apprehend. They’re on
our faces now, the sun’s shattered mirrors,
passing refractions—our plundered rest.
Virginia Barrett’s books of poetry include Between Looking, (Finishing Line Press, forthcoming, 2019) Crossing Haight, and I Just Wear My Wings. Her work has most recently appeared in the Writer’s Chronicle, Narrative, What Rough Beast, Roar: Literature and Revolution by Feminist People, Ekphrastic Review, Weaving the Terrain (Dos Gatos Press), and Poetry of Resistance: Voices for Social Justice (University of Arizona Press). She received a 2017 writer’s residency grant from the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation of Taos, NM. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.