by Casie Dodd

They hid under the fire escape at night 
when they had nowhere else to go,
afraid to sleep in snow. 
They played it cool
despite

the stenching stink of Street-Washed Clothes, that tool 
in claiming space when none can be 
your own. But then, by three 
a.m., cold air 
turned cruel

and licked their ears until, in whispered prayer,
traces of sneers forgotten soon
emerged, just like the moon
that left no light
to spare.

Casie Dodd lives in Arkansas with her husband and two children. Her writing has appeared in Fare Forward, Ekstasis, Front Porch Republic, and other journals. She is currently in the MFA program at the University of St. Thomas (Houston).