March 29, 2016

Going Gypsy by Laura Lovic-Lindsay

She left her husband and the house: going gypsy,
a nomadic soul she comes to tell me she's caravaning
pow wows, stringing a blood connection that should
have happened before, merchanting her jewelry,

weavings. I imagine her fire-dancing with her glasses
lost in the caravan to be found or not in the morning,
she--in draped deer skins or earth-hued blankets.
She never mentioned him. I didn't know she was

married. She takes my email, promises to blog her days,
her travels, her epiphanies--New Mexico, the lure of
West, so many places to belong, so much new dust
to hold, a birthright that passed her, her retirement drained

to buy the caravan that takes her. Four rainbows woven
into the blankets over her and the chanting man from last
night's fire-dancing, she clips a strand of his hair
to weave into her next blanket. The ever-caregiver has

pushed off her caravan, moved to give the next care,
a string of fires like baubles on the necklaces you sell
wary tourists. She makes no mention of what her children
are lying to their friends. Their mother has gone gypsy--

send them photos of that same woman being absorbed
into the sun. That sun spits her back to the flames, stamps her
down like a foot around a fire-circle. We all seek our tribe
and pursue an explosion of sunsets eventually.

Laura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand and no plan for the future. Ten years later, she began secretly herding words. Laura Lovic-Lindsay lives in a leaky old farmhouse in Western Pennsylvania, along a river that tells lies.


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