PSEUDO-HORROR POEM SUMMER AFTER SPRING
the field goes on
though she only believes up to horizon.
orange spray painted sky dawdling towards
evening, she misses already the eager buds of oak trees,
yellow pulp surrounding
everything. every week a new flower beholden. now, it’s summer, and though
deep heat flowers are loaming around the garden beds,
they’re dreary and constant. the petunia going
on and on about thirst until it pods. she watches grandma
weed in the mulch, visor and work gloves. tenderness leaks
through grandma’s creased lips, but the sound of tearing
tears through the air. for now, the sun will bloom for her,
but she’s ready to sit and let the july night itch into being.