Lucy M. Logsdon resides in Southern Illinois where she raises chickens, ducks and other occasional creatures with her husband and two rebel step-grrrls. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in many places, including: Contrary, Nimrod, Heron Tree, Poet Lore, Crack the Spine, Literary Orphans, Gingerbread House, Rust+Moth, Thank You for Swallowing, and Pure Slush’s anthology, Freak. She has received nominations for the Forward Poetry Prize, Best of the Net, and Pushcart.
I know the going, not the staying–
I like to take my leaving quick.
I live for unpaid rent, dented friendships,
boredom, lust, lost bills, misplaced keys.
Time to pack my plaques, my books,
my sack of family photos. Goodbyes jar—
sad ritual of hugs, kisses, see you soon.
So I go: cat out window, snake under door,
ghost, whisper, flee. Motion masters me.
One minute I’m there, the next—breeze,
face in mirror, brief memory. I know
the roads of loaded car, midnight drives.
Asphalt gives to corn. I go to find
myself, I go to leave myself. I go
before some lover, friend, or boss
finds the path that splits my brain–
packed dirt lined with weeping willows.
My sister hikes ahead. Some going
times I see her near a bend. I race,
but she runs faster, toward our mother.
I must bargain a return. Vow Vigilance.
Swear to find the bio markers, scan all
systems, terrorize the answer holders,
gain admittance to working trials.
Break the code, find the first lump,
smaller than a pea. Then, I’d see
the Signs before they started signing.
Before their crosshairs sighted me.
Before mutation, before my going.
Before departure equals gone.