traveler's blessing

Bless this city for ignoring me—for letting me use her 
to tempt myself out of old clothes and into pink glitter pants, 

a cowboy hat, 3-inch heels, anything I want. Bless this city 
for having better things to do than snicker while I change. 

There are no faux pas here.The city does not care for who 
I am or was or should be. This is no resort staffed and appointed 

to force me to enjoy the spectacle of myself, welcomed 
and loved for my beautiful money. Not here. This city 

may answer my knock, drop her eyes, say 
what’s in the drawers and rub the gravestones 

if you must.
 But she’ll be called back from the stoop 
any moment by all her screaming children,

up past bedtime and hungry again. Dishes in the sink 
and errands tomorrow, her feet ache from another long 

day. Someone is bleeding and the phones won’t stop 
ringing, and here I’ve come with heavy feet on the floor 

she just finished sweeping, calling 
put on a pretty dress 
and twirl for me, baby. For her, every night is a funeral. 

Wipe your feet
, she says, and for Christ’s sake, 
push in your chair before you go

Raised in Oklahoma, Anna Weaver lives in North Carolina with her two daughters. Her poems have appeared in Literary Bohemian, Connotation Press, O-Dark-Thirty, and other print and online journals, as well as a couple anthologies, public art projects, and once on a postcard. A self-described open mic tourist, she has performed in Raleigh, Durham, Winston-Salem, Chicago, Atlanta, Nashville, and Savannah. Find her at or @notanna96. 

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