Allison Wilkins is a graduate of the
University of Nevada Las Vegas
International MFA program. Her poems
have appeared in Broken Bridge
Review, Sin City Review, Peeks and
Valleys: A Southern Journal, Tiger’s
Eye and is forthcoming with Pudding
House and Diversion Press. She
currently lives in Lynchburg, Virginia
with her husband and two dogs. She is
an English Professor at Lynchburg
College.
University of Nevada Las Vegas
International MFA program. Her poems
have appeared in Broken Bridge
Review, Sin City Review, Peeks and
Valleys: A Southern Journal, Tiger’s
Eye and is forthcoming with Pudding
House and Diversion Press. She
currently lives in Lynchburg, Virginia
with her husband and two dogs. She is
an English Professor at Lynchburg
College.
Disfortunate
How soon the creative crazy lady
could be me. Separated by a pane
of glass in the window of my car,
I am employed, have a husband,
and four months of rent saved.
I can hide my crazy from the world
Don’t worry how the food will come,
only how it is cooked.
Standing at the corner
of Harmon and Maryland,
a homeless woman holds her cardboard sign.
“Disabled Disfortunate.”
Combines the alliteration for advertising
slant on her beggings. Then, the rush
of dirty guilt. How fragile the turns
to believe disfortunate is a word.
Cleaning
We don’t touch or talk,
just orbit around until colliding.
You don’t love me like I need
so I won’t love you like I should.
Now the words have stopped,
you’re downstairs. I’m upstairs
in the bathroom scrubbing the grout,
the ring from the toilet, cloroxing
the sink, windexing the mirror
because these things
I know how to clean.
How soon the creative crazy lady
could be me. Separated by a pane
of glass in the window of my car,
I am employed, have a husband,
and four months of rent saved.
I can hide my crazy from the world
Don’t worry how the food will come,
only how it is cooked.
Standing at the corner
of Harmon and Maryland,
a homeless woman holds her cardboard sign.
“Disabled Disfortunate.”
Combines the alliteration for advertising
slant on her beggings. Then, the rush
of dirty guilt. How fragile the turns
to believe disfortunate is a word.
Cleaning
We don’t touch or talk,
just orbit around until colliding.
You don’t love me like I need
so I won’t love you like I should.
Now the words have stopped,
you’re downstairs. I’m upstairs
in the bathroom scrubbing the grout,
the ring from the toilet, cloroxing
the sink, windexing the mirror
because these things
I know how to clean.
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Allison Wilkins
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