She finds herself against a reddening floor
as hard as the fist that put her there.
A chair is overturned, legs at odd angles,
the cracked china scattered
like a million broken moons.
Her flesh swelling in round ripe plums,
the sudden fruiting shakes her.
She considers the juice staining her robe,
the wreath of pain around her head,
the feet where tangled roots had been.
*This poem previously appeared in Kaleidowhirl, volume 3, issue 2, Spring 2006. (ISSN: 1550-6088)
Contributor’s Notes: Nancy Priff has been published in Ruminate Magazine, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Kaleidowhirl, and The Writer’s Chronicle as well as in several anthologies. She holds an M.F.A from Fairleigh Dickinson University and has received a Fellowship in Literature from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.