by Denise Bossarte
Park Shelter
I pass the building, wood painted forest green
so dark it’s hard to find the shape, but I remember the roof
curved like a mosque, and years ago
an incident there, something about girl or a woman.
They didn’t find her at first. Then my pace quickens. Ants texture
the path, spring busyness inspired by drainage,
last night’s rain. I’m headed across the park
to another neighborhood, to a beach, then a garden and tearoom.
The solo trip has allowed a soaking of my mother’s death,
my tongue like a typewriter talking as I walk, about her life.
So much has unraveled, her Sisyphean
triumphs enough, or not enough, and no indication of
how she really felt except one journal
praising her mother. Sections of the park—the petting zoo, lake
framed with irises, willows hung over clumps of turtles,
manicured path lined with orange chrysanthemums—
each a comma before moving on. I am the good daughter
with no role. At the B&B I accidentally scrape my skin
in the shower. Make the bed perfectly, plump
the pillows. Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop into the shelter,
rest on the long bench, stare out as people pass.
Wait for ants to cover my legs.
I wait for ants to cover my legs, rest on the long bench, stare
at people passing. No pillows, only hard surfaces.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop here again, wait for a rain
shower. Maybe I’ll make the bed in the B&B,
perfectly plump, yet furniture has no role now, and neither do I,
the good daughter. I laugh, walking along a manicured path
lined with crimson chrysanthemums, past willows and weeping
turtles, upstart irises circling a lake, goats at the petting zoo
bucking horns. Each section of the park is part
of my mother, lines in her journal where she praised everyone
but herself, no indication of her triumphs, a female Sisyphus.
Irises open the turtling curvature of a lake.
I unravel her life as I walk, speak as if my fingers
are pressing keys that could unlock secrets for a soaking
tongue. A solo trip, I have laid myself open
to another neighborhood, another park, another beach,
tea room upon tea room. I am an ant, inspired by last night’s
rain, unbothered by other ants climbing over my scales.
In my grief, people leave me in peace.
The last visit, I heard about a girl, or was it a woman,
and what was left at the shelter, of her shape,
curved like a mosque where no one prayed.
Laurel Benjamin is the author of Flowers on a Train (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2025), a finalist for the Cider Press Book Award and an Honorable Mention for the Small Harbor Publishing Laureate Prize. A San Francisco Bay Area poet, she is active with the Women’s Poetry Salon and is a reader for Common Ground Review. She founded and leads Ekphrastic Writers, a group dedicated to writing and community. Publications include: Pirene’s Fountain, Lily Poetry Review, Cider Press Review, Taos Journal of Poetry, CALYX. Her work has also been anthologized in Women in a Golden State (Gunpowder Press, 2025), among others. She invented a secret language with her brother.
Denise Bossarte is an award-winning writer, photographer, and artist based in Texas, USA. When she’s not immersed in writing, she turns her lens to the world around her, exploring visual spaces with a keen eye for the unexpected. Her photography captures the powerful imagery that can be found in unusual places. She enjoys writing, exploring new art forms, and teaching contemplative photography workshops. She lives in Texas with her husband and literary cat, Za’ Ji. https://www.linkedin.com/in/denise-bossarte-phd-39975841/.