barbara young


You’re on your back,
sweat on your belly drying like sand;
blue striped sheet,
a smell of tidal marshes
and iron.
The surge and ebb of him is still echoing:
in your pulse, and trucks out on the highway,
and the beating blades of that helicopter.
It has been searching for an hour,
or fifteen minutes,
a dog panting after cars.

Breath beside you has turned slow,
and you trace cracks in the ceiling
while they grow to be twigs,
and branches
against a March sky and
you are watching clouds spin
above the merry-go-round
you ran with, fast
to catch, stretch climbing
and stretch leaning
back, and back
below the blurring trees
where your hair brushes dust
as you wind down from flying.

Barbara Young ( says, “As a Southern woman, of uncomfortable years, I am apt to become passive-agressive when crossed. Why I live with cats, I do not know. My husband has great patience.”