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Walking to the Piggly Wiggly

We’re walking to the Piggly Wiggly,
Oma and I, for groceries.
She’s ninety-four; I’m twenty-six.
I’m holding her arm,

but there’s a hole between us.
My mother should be filling it,
the three of us with arms linked,
a proud heritage of empowered women

walking to the Piggly Wiggly.
She was a colicky baby,
Oma says
with a lemon face.

So Oma and I are walking
in the heat of the day, very slowly,
to get bread and milk for the weekend—
that’s what she thinks we need.

Typehouse Magazine Volume 7, No. 2, Issue 20, September 2020

On the Rug

A body, a borrowed one,
its flesh and skin spreading

into Great-Aunt May’s antique Sarouk,
into the garden
of creeping tendrils, tulips,
petals and welcoming pineapples,

the rug receiving,
the body ripening, lightening,

as ruminating sounds from the dishwasher
swirl and purge
watery reflections from frothy
to clear,

and the tick of the clock in the dining room,
tock of the other clock, in the living room,
march not in step
but on their own terms.

Crack the Spine Issue 265, November 2020

A Beautiful, Soft Striped Coat

Reincarnation is my favorite
of the death options—
it gives you something
to look forward to,

like hanging pictures
in a freshly-painted apartment
in a new city,

or a chic getup
with distressed skinny jeans
allowing you to walk boldly
among teenage girls.

Even if you came back
as a chipmunk
there would be moss to dig in,
scarlet berries to tuck in your cheeks,
and a beautiful, soft, striped coat.

Heaven seems so lifeless.
The void is for the stars.

Apricity Magazine April 2021

The Old Mug

Oma, my grandmother,
drinks her tea
from an old green mug
with a crack down the side.

People give her new mugs,
mugs with happy faces, flowers,
polka dots,
bright red mugs.

She puts them on the topmost shelf
and continues to clutch her old one,
whose crack matches
the warm brown tea.

Modern Poets Magazine March 2019