On the bus home, this first ruminating day
of spring, heads are hunched over cell phones,
and bodies are becoming halves
of stone archways, row after row.

But the graying day is ribboning out
in horizontal color lines, and the dampness
of water on sidewalk is the same hue
as your mother’s old purse, recently found
at the back of the closet, smelling of lipstick and cedar.

And across the river, on the bridge out of town,
the commuter train is a grackle’s tapered tail,
surrounded by sky.


~  ~  ~

rachel-adamsRachel Adams lives in Washington, DC, where she is an editor at an nonprofit advocacy association and the founder/editor of Lines + Stars, a literary journal. Her poetry has appeared in the North American Review, Blueline, The Conium Review, Hummingbird Press, Free State Review, NOON, and elsewhere. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of two chapbooks, What is Heard (Red Bird Press, 2013) and Sleeper (Flutter Press, 2015).