CONTINUATION

She’s been at the school only two months, this girl who shivers
in my office, fever pushing through her limbs. At fifteen,
her face a crossroads of beauty & despair.

She confesses to Coke & cereal in the cupboards, nothing
else. Hunger a stone in her stomach. The electricity’s been out
for a week. Her mother’s bed a Hail Mary full of men.

Days ago I drove her to the cinderblock fourplex she called home.
I'd met her mother, non-stop twitch & talk, tarnished
as a thrift store knife, smoking one cigarette after the other.

I’d seen enough to know every word was true.

I tell her what I have to do—phone calls, forms to fill. She nods Yes.
Later, the social worker arrives & the two go outside, hunker
on the picnic bench, the girl’s hair blowing about her pale face.

The passing bell rings & students spill from the portables, pausing
at the unmarked county car. They can write this story too. Waving
goodbye, they keep their distance. Overhead the sky

is dark as pavement, snow waiting its turn.

Moira Magneson calls the Sierra foothills home and taught English for many years at Sacramento City College. Prior to teaching, she worked as a river guide throughout the West. Her poems have appeared in a variety of journals, including most recently Passager, Horned Things, New Verse News, Persimmon Tree, and Plainsongs.