Anna Evans


I shuffle up to Turtle Park
on April's first fine day. So weak.
Bruises flower along the stitch
trail left five days ago. My bitch
cocks her head; my chained gait puzzles
us both. The cherry blossom tussles
each branch to pink against the cold.
If I am limited by the world
in reach, these streets map out my jail.
Green grass overruns the pale,
like creepers softening the bars
through which the prisoner sees the stars.
I must turn homeward soon; the cost
of breaking out is charged by frost—
death of the first buds. This is how
spring primes the over-eager bough.

Anna Evans' poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the Harvard Review, Rattle and Measure. She is the editor of The Barefoot Muse, and gained her MFA from Bennington College MFA. Her chapbook Swimming is available from Maverick Duck Press.