Sally Franson is an MFA candidate in Creative Writing and graduate instructor at the University of Minnesota. Since her undergraduate studies at Columbia, she has enjoyed experimenting with both form and content. Her poetry has been published in BAP Quarterly and Apparatus, her essays have appeared in elimae and The Wisconsin Story Project, and her reportage has been featured with Isthmus, The Daily Page, The L Magazine, Daily Candy, and REACH, among others. Recently she has been awarded the endowed Gesell Prize in Nonfiction from the University of Minnesota and an Excellence in Wisconsin Journalism award from the Milwaukee Press Club. She also was a 2011 finalist for the Eva Kriseova Fellowship for the Prague Summer Program.
The grass tickles. You are lying
on your stomach with your cheek
pressed to a thin-lipped
flower. There are secrets
within. He wants to know,
to hold the key: Do the stars hang
themselves? Or did invisible
hands hold them, coax them to light,
till each one sighed and settled
her legs, lulled by the pulse,
her own reverberant silence?
You don’t want to tell him
yet. The words blow apart
too easily, like dandelion seeds
on a cotton mountaintop.