by Pamela Sayers
Neurons crossfire, tracing constellations
into this room
Their son, nine years old,
at school, sings John Lennon,
draws a picture of a beach where
people carry roses toward the shoreline,
an offering to the deceased; listening
to his explanation, we smile …
Late afternoon
Summer’s here —
the blazing sun stitches the threads
of my blouse into my chest, unpleasant
Like the refrain of skipping a stylus
on ebony, I wait for its end, retrieving
cracked ice from my glass …
Saturday’s reprieve
A blend of aquamarine crushed shells
strike opaque, a cataract on an azure sky
Strings of blossoms honeyed on rice paper,
tempered lemon water’s current runs
freely,
unlatching gingerlily’s aroma in drafts
through open windows; spare droplets
meet morning lawns
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