She’s going to write another
poem about how she almost

moved
to Georgia. And she’ll use
move

at least two more times
before finding relief

for a blistered left
thumb. This burn—an accident.

An embarrassment.
An encounter
with a flat

iron nothing like the wedge
of a building where her former

self began.
Then the move
back

to Connecticut, then the big one
to Minneapolis—not Athens.

One music town
or another
moves

ahead. A northern girl
in the end—so far.