By Lily Maguire
1
Yellow like dandelions on a fast
road, extending the warning of
that dotted curb line that we walk
next to in our vests,
hands ac ting like
they are hanging
out wind ows –
straight out to the sides in a
cross, or dancing in the wind.
And we will pass the cows which
are a dirtier shade of the yellow
that’s burnt, highlighting the sky
on a stick, showing the cars the
curves that are to come. Yellow
like these dandelions, yes, that I
am not supposed to pick, so
instead I just think of the crowns
I could weave from their stems,
or the times I have slipped their
petals behind my left ear, and I
will keep walking with the others
down the road, and shut the door.
