Widows drink mint tea//
My mom has not left her bed in a week.
Bowls of tomato soup left cold outside her bedroom,
Untouched.
Her sheets are as rumpled as her hair, even though a hairbrush
Lays right by her nightstand.
She says she is just sick
I never said she wasn't.
I am worried about her.
The only thing she drinks is mint tea,
And I bet the tea was brewed,
With wilted mint leaves.
Everybody leaves.
Maybe that is why she does not leave.
Their bed.
Their room.
Their house.
Her bed.
Her room.
Her house.
After all, what is a widow without a property
She wishes she never owned?
-S/A
YOU ARE READING
escapril 2021
Poetryjust a collection of escapril prompts i thought you guys would like!\
