Beneath my right shoulder
blade is a wound. It pains me
from time to time, cause unknown,
a fierce reminder that my body
still has secrets. It does not bleed,
this wound. Sometimes what hurts
is not wrong after all. We adapt.
I think about my mother who
does not sleep, shuffling in the dark.
She would say it is without purpose.
With wilting wrists, my hands hover,
searching. Sometimes what is wrong
does not hurt. My family is made
of the untold, and I am no different.
There is a language for it, home.

Ashley Sapp resides in Columbia, South Carolina, with her dog, Barkley. She earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from the University of South Carolina in 2010, and her work has previously appeared in Indie Chick, All Female Menu, Emerge Literary Journal, and Common Ground Review. Ashley has written two poetry collections, Wild Becomes You and Silence is a Ballad.

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