Twelve in Yellow-Weed at the Edge

By Cynthia Cruz Cynthia Cruz
Then, the police arrive — they don’t find me.
I’m disguised as a boy in a champagne wig
And hid inside the gold rattle of a warm Appalachia wind.
Beneath the trash of willow, I am. The sorrow
Of  trailer parks and carnie uncles. The poor
Girl’s underworld, a weedy thing. The night,
With its kingdom of  lanterns and awful blue lark.
How we waited, how we hid
Like wolves, in the revolving question of a field.

Source: Poetry (May 2014).


This poem originally appeared in the May 2014 issue of Poetry magazine

May 2014
 Cynthia   Cruz


Born in Germany, Cynthia Cruz grew up in northern California. She earned her BA at Mills College and her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College. She is the author of Ruin (2006) and The Glimmering Room (2012). Her poems have appeared in numerous literary journals and magazines, including The New Yorker, AGNI, The American Poetry Review, Brown Paper, Boston Review, Denver Quarterly, Guernica, and The Paris Review, and in anthologies . . .

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Poem Categorization

SUBJECT Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality

POET’S REGION U.S., Mid-Atlantic

Poetic Terms Free Verse

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Originally appeared in Poetry magazine.

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