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