"My Daughter Won't Step on a Crack" by Ellen Lager

My Daughter Won't Step on a Crack

She grew up with generations of a mother’s and grandmother’s
notions. Eat leftovers, it will be a sunny day tomorrow.
Open umbrellas indoors and broken mirrors add up

to years of bad luck, but found pennies stem the tide.
Fending off rain, the arachnophobe captures eight-legged crawlies,
deposits the delicate creatures outdoors into cracks

that pattern the concrete patio of her new home,
needs no reminder to toss spilled salt over her left shoulder.
With an artist’s hands, she knocks on wood

embedded with shards of polished glass, crosses her fingers
her work will sell. An acorn tucked into her pocket,
she hails the dragonfly along shoreline reeds,

seeks the flattest stones, skips her childhood fears
across water, wishes flying high
with the wing of the albatross.

Ellen Lager

Ellen Lager is a Pushcart nominee, whose poems have been published or are forthcoming in The MacGuffin, Neologism, Sheila-Na-Gig, Litbreak, Blue Heron Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, I-70 Review, and Apricity, as well as various anthologies. She is a former elementary school teacher, an active member of the League of MN Poets, and spends much of her time writing poetry in Minneapolis and at a lake cabin in northern Minnesota with her husband, two rambunctious dogs and two unruffled cats. 

Headshot:  Kellie Lager

Photo Credit: Staff