naomi thiers
At 10 PM, giddy,
not remembering her years,
an 11-year-old girl swirls and pivots
through the common back lawn of George Mason Village:
a swath of grass dotted
with mimosas and barbecue pits,
creeping with honeysuckle behind
pink-brick garden apartments.
At the edge of gangs,
at the edge of luxury,
in her fourth home, the home
without a father at the table, but the one
that will last, my daughter
lurches joyfully after fireflies.
Trouble is barred or tickled away
as she dances, the deep
green yard drenched in light.
Floodlights mounted atop each building
make this glade safe. They do not mar
the line of woods, or the whisper
of Four Mile Run behind our condo.
And if shirtless men sprawl along that creek’s
banks and rocks, passing bottles,
they did this in their first country, seeking
a place to breathe away from women.
Most mean no menace
to the feral cats who hunt here
or to the girl who now whirls, laughing,
forgetting,
fully engaged
in this night.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
naomi thiers - she dances behind our new home
naomi thiers
grew up in Pittsburgh, but has long made her home the Washington-DC/Northern Virginia area. Her first book of poetry Only The Raw Hands Are Heaven won the Washington Writers Publishing House competition and was published in 1993. Her poetry, fiction, and interviews with writers have been published in Virginia Quarterly Review, Poet Lore, Colorado Review, Pacific Review, Antietam Review, and many other magazines.
