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Everything that morning was white and grey,
even the plants showed up in their palest
for an April wedding.

My chest bones ache when I wake up,
stretched after a night of being curled
in sleepless blinking.

A man walked up to me with tears in his hands
that were larger than snowfalls, smaller than marbles
“I made these for you.”

Never had my soul held such concord and pain.

“Clear”, was all I could say.

Sitting in the restaurant that poses
as the town centre
You eyes are now a forest on the eastern seaboard
Clarity, growing like sound

Fishing for Pennies

You stand in line fishing change out of the oceans of your purse. As you fumble for a fourth penny you blame your habit on an aunt who once cooked a meal for an army of men that was never there. Her house makes you cry. It’s been locked for years but we all bet the curtains still wear her perfume and the ghost of the cat still bites invisible guests’ hands. Whether rooms slumber in completed asphyxia or the walls still live and breathe, homes are always partially frozen in our minds and are remembered while standing in line looking for four dollars and one more copper penny.