sunday evenings i find you curled up by the window sill. your fingers tucked inside your mouth counting your teeth. tell me why there are always bottles of pills. tell my why i write poems about warm tropical holidays in greece. and why I'm still so bitter to the tongue. teach me to swallow the pills like mama. teach me how to carve my papa's fists into bouquets of flowers. dear mama your are missing eight teeth. dear mama you have a fist shoved in your mouth. dear mama your skin is turning into leather. dear mama why are you letting this happen.
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can alternatively be called: a number of different memories
☁
sorry for the wait!
thepoetrysociety awards is open
And they are hiring non poets too:)
