backseat (bi)cycle

her family tells her she is too young
to write poetry with anyone other than herself,
that her hands will drip with the ink
he will leave behind.

it was an accident, you see,
all of it.
her grandparents always told her to look forward
when you push the pedals,
be careful where you tread
lest you scrape your knees during the fall.

she hears her mother’s voice
screaming to leave the past behind –

and still, anna rides her bicycle across old bus stops,
the cracked edge of the
grey, empty, plastic childseat
caught on the back of her shirt.


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