Dear Jerielle,

a hot cup of tea
cozy mystery in hand
a break from chaos

raindrops fall
     from deep grey clouds hovering above

as I eat fresh strawberries
     from a failing farmstand

thunder claps
      from distances unknown

i trade sweetness
      from a tongue parched to nonexistent bone

lightning streaks the sky
     from beneath I walk instead of hide

I have decided that syllables mean way more than how I count them.

The town’s roads were under construction
Dirt and dry, almost fluffy
This funeral was for the lady who made my first baby blanket
Pale yellow
An avid Elvis fan
A great-aunt
Not sure if she was an actual aunt
A record player played her favorites
It skipped and got restarted
Several times
“A-don’t be cruel,”
“Oh my love, my darling,”
The preacher’s sermon felt like an audition
He looked and pointed at my grandmother
And said
“You’re next”
I couldn’t help but laugh
The air smelled of mildew and hot sun baths
Leaving the home, I stepped side-by-side
With my middle sister
And a few steps ahead of my mother
This was a scene from a movie
And it felt uncomfortable
I watched my family cringe
I tried really hard not to smile
“I’m not sure why I’m here”
I was in my early 20s, still felt obligated
To acknowledge the strangers that
I had lived with for 18 years

midnight rainfall settled onto iris leaves
stretching slender, pointed pathways
i walk the garden 
translucent, transcendent, glowing orbs
catching June sunshine
twinkling 
i take pictures to remember
dewed breath morning glow

then i remember to check the nest
check to see if babies are growing
strong and fat and loud
i peek into what was their shelter
now torn
two barely feathered nestlings, desssicated, limp
already attended by flies
mother and father gone, on to the next attempt

Lilting, Laughing, Dancing
June breeze doesn’t seem to notice

Yellow; Red
I walked jubilantly over the dead

glistening was the leaves that fell from the prior eve,

enough to cover the entire street underneath lamp posts lit with glee

It rained in Kentucky yesterday.
I heard this from the poets.

Poets just love to talk about the weather.
Torrential this, my heart breaking that.

It’s always something with them.
But, unlike meteorologists, we’re always right.

every month this large box is waiting
on my doorstep when i arrive home

within is a paper bag filled with amber containers
each filled with a different color pill
yellow, lighter yellow (i like this one),
off white, gray, black, pink, blue
each one to treat an ailment
or to prevent an ailment
that all need to be resorted
into another plastic container
with days of the week and am or pm
until they resort themselves in my body
(how does each one know where to go)
there use to be more
(i had to look up use to or used to)
all kept in a box up high on a shelf
away from curious toddlers and curiouser dogs
and i sometimes i wish
i could keep it away from me

forced entry into my insides. 
you spilled them out.
you ruined the carpet.
you picked them back up,
shoved them back in,
and called me
brand new.