dear oliver,
i found your baseball
the other day, hiding
underneath my bed.
it had rolled there,
somehow, i believe,
considering you’d never
give it to anyone.
you had caught it
with your father, at
a giants game when
he was, well, happy.
when he didn’t drink
to his death. when
he didn’t tear apart
the flesh and conscience
of your mother.
when everything
did not fall a
p
a
r
t.
quinn
YOU ARE READING
zero
PoetryQuinn scribbles tainted emotions across thin layers of white paper. But to who? To someone who blinks once, sees her, and blinks again-just to make her disappear. To someone who sees her as a symbol of the ocean. To someone who thinks the ocean is...
