Two Poems: Stacy Gnall
What She Was Wearing This morning, the moon’s insistence. Its light refuses to call off the search for the girl from back three decades from three exits away when I was a girl, too. National news. And all the mothers spinning cautionary tales till they were blue. Always a bad sign, her purse left behind. And did the shoe the hounds found nearby match? She was wearing a crease in her slack. A necklace of several strands. Youth in its shammy trance.