The dragging
by Amelia Bird

The frond and the curve that held it pressed
to the neck of the trunk falls on the driveway
close to the road in late morning.
The thwack slopes through the bay window,
arches as far as the mirror at the end of the hall
and reflects there. The last fragments of sound
dwindle just past her waist. She turns
by lifting ankles, spinning slowly
on the balls of her feet. Pause, then
the door swings wide baring her
straightened foot, toes reaching
for the stoop. The thin hem of skirt
grazes the back of a knee.

All the driver saw was the dragging.
As he passed and craned
he imagined the sound of frond
fingernails on rock-pitch; tense knuckles clawing,
resisting her grip and the lawn waste pick-up heap.

3.6.2003

Amelia Bird is a third year humanities student at New College. She currently is the senior editor of the New College literary magazine backwards & ugly and has an overwhelming interest in vultures.