by Dawn Corrigan

I remember what the world
was like before I became

what I am. It flutters
past me like the aftermath

of ash when the fire’s
been put out, a dancing

scrap that might’ve
been a sweater, or a book

or a box of crap
I should’ve given away

while I had the chance.
Once I was a person

who went places: summer
camp, Niagara Falls,

the caves of Timpanogos.
Now I wait, always

equidistant from the site
of my disaster like a dog

at the end of its lead.
No one looks for the keys

to the forgotten valise,
lost like my other fates

and the trees can’t grow back
fast enough to save us.

DAWN CORRIGAN’s poetry and prose have appeared widely in print and online. Her masthead credits include Western Humanities Review, Girls with Insurance, and Otis Nebula, where she currently serves as assistant editor. She works in the affordable housing industry and lives in Myrtle Grove, FL. Find her online at