Virginia
in a box full of broken wind chimes I found each of my grandmother’s ears, each of her fingers stolen by the grating of metal, the sound of a sparkplug pressed into life in a building shuttered in a city poisoned. the scent of pink covergirl reminds me always of before I knew she could forget a name, before she gripped my arm, asking does it hurt you still, asking if I pray for you will you pray for me. I wish I thought of her each time I crossed a river. instead, I think of her each time I do not answer a phone, each time glass is broken.
Sam Stebbins is a poet from Grand Rapids, Michigan. She likes punk music, turtlenecks, and her dog, Rosie. Her poems can be found in Cease, Cows, The 3288 Review, formercactus, and elsewhere. Follow Sam on Twitter @samstebbins_.
1 Comment