Tree branch on electric line, two reclining lawn chairs


A poem for Sunday

Twenty thousand bees pursue
a Mitsubishi,
their queen trapped inside.

For one dollar at a yard sale:
a shoebox diorama of the moon
where the astronauts are built from foil.

My mother empties half of her sleeping pills
into Tupperware, slides them to me
from across the table.

I should be done now, done with it,
the life I wanted before I wanted
it simple.

Olivia refuses to live in a yellow house,
says she’s saving the color
for her forever home.

Blood circles the drain.
I search my body for the source
but can’t find it.