Writer, performer and founding member of Bonneville Theater CompanySouth Brooklyn Poetry Club Lindsey Trout Hughes shares a poem from her collection Diorama.

Once, they named
the streets
after women who
would never be their wives, all
the babies
who would never be
did this like it wouldn’t return
to haunt everything, the pavement,
our dreams of long-legged birds.
They flood nesting grounds
like it’s a good idea, residue
of victory like a river on fire,
water in which one does not
drown, but decays. It’s enough
to make your teeth shake—
the photograph of the dead
neighbor’s dog, how we used to
wear our hair. We’ve forgotten
I don’t mean
to be this way— hard,
The last dusky sparrow
the night I was born.