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


American poet Cynthia Cruz is the author of Wunderkammer (Four Way Books, 2014), The Glimmering Room (Four Way Books, 2012), and Ruin (Alice James, 2006).She has published poems in numerous literary journals and magazines including the New Yorker, Kenyon Review, the Paris Review, and the Boston Review, and in anthologies including Isn't it Romantic: 100 Love Poems by Younger Poets (2004), and The Iowa Anthology of New American . . .

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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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