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March 2009, vol 5 no 1
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Liz Wells East The tattoo on Annie's wrist is blue, an inky arrow leaning left—leading home although Sagittarians already know the way to their Commonwealth. Virginia, dishwater blonde, raised among Amish raising barns with tin stars on the roofs—a sign that welcomes those who wander, offers food. Tomatoes in the backyard beside Black-Eyed Susan, corn to last. The mason jars are stacked, boiled glass waiting for winter dinners. Annie has her mother's knack for growing tall and slender, thriving even on the other coast, working, walking between rows of someone else's garden, watering for lack of rain, waiting until there is money enough to go back again. The stars are not to blame when the big-dipper conjures home; they have always been there |