Glada
Nobody in Glada wears heeled shoes.
If they did, their feet would catch
On the uneven paths and stepping stones
Or on the roots of the grand weeping willow
In the middle of town.
Nobody in Glada wears long pants.
For their hems would be drenched.
With the salty waves of the great pacific.
Especially the fisherman
Who tread the unsteady current
Gathering fish for next season's harvest
In the crimson river by the field of poppies.
One day I will have my own ship.
A beast like my brother
And father, and his father before.
His name will be Valaras
And he will be a mighty ship
Made from the richest of dark oak
And mounted with a branch
Of the great willow.
Nobody wears white if they call Glada home.
As they would know
Their whites are all stained
With kisses of the fields
And the blessings of the hills.
White is for Sunday breakfast
On blueberry ridge
When the sun shines full
Through the parting clouds.
Or when Nana fell
Walking to the shore
And never got up again.
I can still see the fresh paint
Glistening on her face
Red as blood
As her amber ship
Was pushed from ashore
As the salt from the sea
Made its way to my mouth
And my mother clutched me close
I saw the silver of her hair
Shimmering ever so slightly
As her ship was engulfed
In flames
And the crashing tides
Carried her away
For the very last time.
Strike Out,
St. Louis
Author: Ava Melton-Meaux
Graphic Designer: Katie Zhu