Poetry from Hazel Fry


Translate her into a storybook 
with yellow illustrations, children’s 
fingers humming as they gaze in jealousy. Translate her scraped knuckles 
into bandaids drowned in flavorless pink. Rip out the pages where her control 
whimpers inside splintering chains, 
choking, gagging in alleyway shadows 
where a man breathes too close. 
Peel away the part where she draws her knife. Tear the paper. 
Don’t show the children how she fights back. Scribble over his body in her succulent soil and the diced red peppers 
she swallows without crying. 
Freeze the little girls mariating in envy 
as they scroll through their storybook. 
Tighten their yellow bows. 
Translate her.