THESE HILLS ARE LOW

Summer dust and highway lilies.  
Mama’s cooling on the step. 
My white thighs beating, toes in grass, 
heading for the hills. Stone bridge.  
Bluebells. The trees in Carolina, 
an island of quills. Papa’s got 
his right eye screwed. Bloodhounds 
are barking at my Sunday glove. Five miles. 
Ten. A dove bursts into scarlet. 
These hills are low. Not made for leaving. 

Lisa Low’s essays, book reviews, and interviews have appeared in The Massachusetts Review, The Boston Review, The Tupelo Quarterly, and The Adroit Journal. Her poetry has appeared in a variety of literary journals, among them Valparaiso Poetry Review, Phoebe, American Journal of Poetry, Delmarva Review, and Tusculum Review.