Scattered Pepper

There was a girl who prayed
for a language that would
burn their hands.
When it was over,
she mixed together
mud and chalk dust,
the blood from
her loose teeth,
filled up empty
baby food jars.
The girl would snatch
up dandelions, the milk
sticky on her fingers,
then blow them into the
corners of her room.
Soon she picked the yard
clean, then the neighbors.
Started pulling more teeth,
used up all the chalk.
She stole spices,
scattered pepper
in her bed.
She didn’t know
it was her growing
that made them stop.

Kristin Ryan is a poet and essayist working towards healing, and full sleeves of tattoos. She is a recipient of the Nancy D. Hargrove Editor's Prize in Poetry, and her work has been nominated for Best New Poets, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize. Her poems and essays have been featured in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Jabberwock Review, Milk and Beans, Moonchild Magazine, Serotonin Lit, and SWWIM among others. She holds an MFA from Ashland University and works in the mental health field.