March 2013
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February 2013
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January 2013
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December 2012
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August 2012
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June 2012
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May 2012
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For my grandmother
You write in flowers
Bright phrases edging over wooden buckets
Guarded
By chicken-wire on posts
So the dogs won’t sneak in
And eat your colorful poetry.
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I was splitting perfume into bottles
While you were in your bed with her.
You told me not to bother with you.
You told me I’d come too far
To find nothing in this place for me.
It cracked me when you said that.
Sent fissures down my spine in waves.
I didn’t tremble like I’d thought I would,
But I turned and left your house anyway.
I couldn’t stand the sight of her
With your arms entwined.
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I tried to imagine what you’d taste like
Or even if you’d let me try to find out.
It’s probably a cross between burt’s bees
And sweet fruit.
Crepes weren’t the only thing
I was hungry for.
The boy with his pants barely on
Said your eyes were beautiful,
And he’s right.
