We both felt cold
on our lips: mine,
as I soared under shivering fluorescents, color of
—when it was clean—
the faded minivan mom drove
to an extra shift tonight;
hers, soaring down 88 in that “piece of shit”,
windows rattling, permanently
cracked, no heat.
I scooped the edge
of my blade, stretching
farther than the girls with nothing
to fly to, a bird gliding
through telephone pole legs
and sparking dresses; I flew without fear, blind
to the price of my freedom.
Mom comes home late, to my room;
asks me tonight how well I flew.
Rachel Reilly is currently a senior at the University of Illinois at Chicago where she studies Creative Writing and Gender and Women’s Studies. After graduation, she hopes to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing. Although poetry is her first love, she has yet to publish her work.