“Mildly Prophetic”

Because I chewed gritty sassafras once,

chasing the burn of root beer on my lips,

I felt I was a survivor, or that I could be

when the time came, which it most definitely would.

Alarmist, AC diva, mildly prophetic

Cassandra pantomiming my distress—

nobody believed how easy it was

to trace on an antiqued globe a path

from every danger to my backyard.

I prepared by keeping my treasures portable—

sand dollars, rabbit’s foot keychain, pencils     

too small, too valuable to write with

unless it was to mark thrilling pictures

in the books I’d have to leave behind.

Poor Medusa—alarmed, collared with gore.

I vowed never to be shocked like that—

mouth moving after death, but without words.

On my globe the equator was a raised line—

a decal I took literally. The day was coming

when life would be halved. In science class

we refashioned shrews from owl pellets

studded with bones, so naturally I believed

a new world might grow from trinkets

rattling in a cigar box where chain letters came to die.

Learn more about how Pelegrin will support regional literary programs through her role as Poet Laureate at leh.org.