After Sally, Dolly, and Emma
In the winter of your childhood, you
hid under the table in the basement
while men knocked at the front door
because dad told you to. Lights off,
sewing for yourself a blanket out of rags
from the coat of many colors
that mama made for you. It didn’t always
keep you warm but it was better
than nothing. And so you learned to walk
that way in a foot of snow, fifteen miles
back and forth, keeping warm by yourself.
In the summer of adulthood, now
don’t you forget—sweating rage and bullets,
nothing sad will happen, you believe,
if you hold tight enough
to the fear-soaked fabric,
more cumbersome
each morning. The panicked aubade—
Why am I so fucking hot all the time?
It’s the quilt that kept you safe, once,
the one that weighs you down.
Cecilia Durbin is a proud Kentuckian, writer, and musician. Her work has appeared in Appalachian Review, Screen Door Review, and Shale. She currently serves as managing editor and book designer for Miracle Monocle at the University of Louisville where she also teaches English. Find her at ceciliadurbin.com.
Rough Diamond Poetry 