The Twenty-Fourth of May

Today, I ordered my usual -
a medium, iced latte.

I do my routine at the coffee shop:
order, wait, and pick up my drink,
The same man hands it to me, with
his usual golden, circle-framed glasses,
and leather wrist watch.
Walk over to
the little table where
customer's help themselves,
and get a straw.
Stab black counter until
yellow plastic penetrates the
paper covering.
Put it in the drink as I walk out,
pushing the door with my left shoulder
instead of my hands.

The latte tastes different today,
Less milky,
harder to
swallow - bitter.
Or maybe that's just me, today.
Because of you
things are
harder to swallow -
bitter.

Confirmation of Submissions

HeartWood Literary Magazine

The New Yorker

Matador Review

The Small Things

Not washing my face in the morning or night,

Brushing my teeth in thirty seconds, or not at all,

Staying on the ground after a fall,

Skipping a meal, or having a bite.

Sitting in my room for hours without light,

Quietly thudding my head against the wall,

Watching the phone screen turn black when there’s a call,

There’s no sorrier sight.

Things like these go unnoticed,

But I do want people to see.

Do say so please, if you can tell me why.

Because for years I have waited,

But those close to me,

Won’t understand when I say goodbye.

Traumatic Childhood

Their feuds kept her up at night,

And to cope she’d say things were alright.

That was until one day

She saw father’s decay

And on mother’s face: pure delight.

Morning Quiet

She wakes up to pale light and peace,

Hazy head and brown hair with light grease.

But count to three,

And recall, will she,

The car crash left her son deceased.