Potential

Potential

The grime goes all the way around
her fingernails, and even standing
this far apart, I can smell
the big scarf she wraps herself in.

The blue of her unwashed hair 
has faded to green and the yellow
of dry grass. She’s got a crescent hickey
on her neck in spite of quarantine.

Nineteen, no one can tell
her anything. She stands barefoot
on the sidewalk, lavender toenails,
each piece of clothing a different pattern. 

She acts mean, but I know she feels
unworthy of life. Five months ago, 
when I visited her in the psych ward,
she was shivering in mint-green scrubs

and didn’t want to talk about what put her there,
though she complimented the color
of my sweater. At the start of quarantine,
when I hand-washed my winter clothes 

before putting them away, I held that one 
to my face and was sent back 
to the sour desperation I felt.
We have no idea what’s coming.

This poem was written by an old friend of mine, Cecilia Hagen. It was published recently at https://www.guesthouselit.com/