by Mary Ann Honaker

It's winter. On foot, we are going some-
where. I wear fishnet, a miniskirt of
leather. We wear all black, all of us.

Laughing, up the icy road we claw
in our tall boots, in our long coats, in our
prime. My boots don't have enough tread. Our way

is steep. A biker-jacketed boy lifts me to
his back. He is bearded, jangles with each step, the
chains dangling off him everywhere. Bottom

is a pleasant place to be, we transcend
our world's comparisons, dart downward.
My fishnet are ripped, it's okay, we're there

in coats with shredded lining, at
a place where we are all fabulous. The
boys wear eyeliner, here at the hub

of my youth. I feel strangely tucked in, of
them, comfortable. The memory, the
moment, framed by snowfall, will never drain

from me. It's in a snowglobe. We are we,
and it's easy for once. Step back; flakes swirl.



This is a golden shovel using lines from Diane Seuss' “I Went Downtown and Went Down,” from Four-Legged Girl.

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Mary Ann Honaker is the author of Becoming Persephone (Third Lung Press, 2019), and Whichever Way the Moon (Main Street Rag, 2023). Her poems have appeared in Bear Review, JMWW, Juked, Little Patuxent Review, Rattle.com, Solstice, Sweet Tree Review, and elsewhere. She currently lives in Beckley, West Virginia.