Pressed Like a Shadow
He used to hate in less dangerous ways:
name calling, not calling, an accidental
push into the wall, left to walk home
from the store. All the phone calls
from the bold girl at Kitty's Korner used to be
hidden. Bruises could be forgiven.
She used to sneak flowers from the city park
and press them between sheets
of newspaper, ignoring the headlines.
Roses must be gathered without dew,
painstakingly broken into separate pieces,
disassembled, and arranged face down.
Then tighten the screws of the flower press
until the petals dry to near black
and thin as a dragonfly wing.
By Pam Vap
Biography:
Pam Vap is a high school English teacher in Arizona. She was a first place winner in the Nebraska Writer's Guild Poetry contest, a first place Goodreads poetry winner, an Allen Ginsberg Poetry Honorable Mention, a finalist in the Lascaux Literary Prize in Poetry, and a finalist in the Prime Number Magazine Award for Poetry. She has recently published in Ravensperch, Poetry East, Pudding Magazine, Poetry on the Plains, DASH, Abandoned Mine and Glacial Hills Review.
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