Girls Without Fathers

The engagement was over, so Amanda dug a well

in the middle of a field, tossed a pack of Camels

and a few cracked novels down the hole,

then dyed her hair redder in that water, so cold

it dried stiff. She wanted to see Maine’s lighthouses,

but the drive was too damn far, so she started digging.

I can see light when I look up from here, anyway.

She wears a kimono like a tired housewife,

blows smoke away from my face, clinks her cider

against my beer, a Cheers to every woman

who believed a man when he said love and true,

who let herself bloom when there was no rain.

Down there, the light becomes a white coin hanging

above her slack mouth, her tilted chin, her dull eyes.

Paige Sullivan

Paige Sullivan is currently an MFA candidate in the creative writing program at Georgia State University, where she also serves as the poetry editor of New South. Her poetry appears or will soon appear in Terminus, American Literary Review, Mead, and others. She also works as a freelance food and travel writer.

Contributions by Paige Sullivan