Near the mason dixon line on a summer night in 1994

by Sarah Bigham

a migraine
a zipper that wouldn’t quite catch
shoes to almost match a white gown with the dented scent
of someone else
pomp on grass
a flash of curls

found/ lost/ found/

softened edges
shirts and dreams

the swing of hips
walking toward firelight

seen and so
believed

Sarah Bigham teaches, writes and paints in Maryland, where she lives with her kind chemist wife, their three independent cats and an unwieldy herb garden. Having grown up just above the Mason Dixon Line in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and now living just below the line, she has a unique perspective on the juxtaposition of North vs. South. She attended college in Virginia and has multiple friends and family members who live in the “real South,” as they call it.  A Puschcart nominee, her poetry, fiction and nonfiction have appeared in CEO Literary Review, Dulcet Quarterly, Dying Dahlia Review, Pulse: Voices from the Heart of Medicine, Snapdragon, Touch: The Journal of Healing, Whirlwind and other great places for readers and writers. Find her at www.sgbigham.com.