Ruin walls rise up like brutes and frame the open sky
with half moon cloisters etched by people we will never meet,
but people we would want to know
My daughter is running wild with yellow and green—
she pours inside the open spaces,
disturbing the others with her laughter
I seep through the gaps of neat little squares—
I stroke the cool stones of the abbey wall,
lean into it’s crumbly interior, defeated
Don’t go too far, I say—
but she has already left me, she has already broken through
and I watch amidst the summer heat my former self
trail behind her like a kite.
Brandi Kary is a mother, educator, and writer who lives in Pacific Grove, California. She currently teaches college English and Creative Writing and enjoys dragging her kids all over the world to gain inspiration. Her poetry has recently appeared in Dead Snakes, Bluepepper Review, Homestead Review, and The Voices Project.