She Must Have a Name

Story furrow, black pen brow, red fable
ink, maybe these are things
the woman at Wendy’s thinks, appearing here
as she appears whenever I am
in town, waiting at a fast food counter
for an order mistake, dressed
in discolored brown denim, yellowed
Kmart sneakers, holes
in an old blue cardigan without buttons, gray hair
unwashed but parted and combed, lost light, lost
wisdom. Mother of God. Maybe
she knows how words grow thin, snarl
and break, dull bone knife cut shoulder
to shoulder leaving only
one heretic lock untouched
since birth, her connection to language
of the first world, hidden underneath her
sweater, the strand growing unseen, through
tapestry moth holes, webbing larvae meal traces
night after night, filling up
times like these when there is no burger
made wrong. I give her my dinner. She looks
through me, sees one empty table.

Email: Eliza Kelley

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