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Spring 2016

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In Her Own Words:

This poem is evidence that I did get something done during my sabbatical. I had a memory, but was not feeling nostalgia. At all. The poem was just published in Blue Collar Review (Fall 2015).


Cashier at Winn-Dixie

Eight hours of standing, left leg

hurting even before posing

behind the register.


At night I dream of customers

laying groceries on my bed, impatient

to be rung up. I tell them no, I am

trying to sleep, come back in the morning

when I am at work.


They pile their cans of hominy and peas

along my left leg, throw their sacks of potatoes

on my knee, loaves of bread a foot high on my stomach

while I struggle to keep up, to figure out the price

of a can of Libby’s if six cost a dollar.


There is no register, no belt to move the milk

or ground beef. But they keep coming with their

cookies and dog food. Wanting cigarettes and batteries.


And all of it, all of it, on my left leg, the weight cementing,

encasing, keeping the leg from bending, from running

away from these people who now sit on the edges

of my mattress not happy, threatening to call the manager.


I yell, I’m not wearing my uniform, just before

the alarm goes off and I wake to another day of standing.