Cracked Sidewalks

by Rya Sheppard


I said No, but he insisted 
that he inscribe his name and number
on the palm of my hand, branding me
with the black ink of his pen. 
He looked at me then, his eyes
yellow and flashing 
synchronous with the lights
in the club. His smile
like a frown, his brows furrowed
and teeth gnarled.


I left then,
stepping out into the crisp
air of night, the black sky above
reflected his face, and told me 
to run, so I ran,
cracks in the sidewalk, tripping
stumbling, threatening to break
the back of the mother who 
raised me to fear no man.


I fear this man,
I fall on a crack in the sidewalk,
and on my way down I see
a daisy sprouting from
the concrete, bright and white.
How beautiful, I think.


* * * * *

Rya Sheppard is a fiction writer from Kellogg, Idaho. She studied creative writing at the University of Idaho and hopes to attend graduate school in the fall. She spends most of her free time writing stories and poetry or spending time with her cat, Zoey.