Terry Ann Thaxton hold an MFA from Vermont College and has published poetry and essays in Connecticut Review, Gulf Coast, Painted Bride Quarterly, Cimmaron Review, Flint Hills, Seattle Journal for Social Justice, flyway, Sou’wester, Lullwater, and other journals.
She teaches creative writing at the University of Central Florida in Orlando.
Married at eighteen, again
at twenty-one, I wore flowers and drifted
into parades. Once, to be with a man I moved
to Illinois, lived in his house
in the woods, and drove his jeep on dirt roads
until he realized I didn’t do
How had I’d managed no blood?
There was proof of fear in 1970: beneath our desks,
where kids stuck ABC gum, we held our knees, waiting for
the bomb. Ten years passed, and I grew to be
afraid of tanks coming down Lockwood Ridge Road,
and men with machine guns knocking on my door.