what i remember about the day she died:
black and purple checkered linen quilt draped over my body like ashes
my brother's red toy car
the screams of my mother, like when the ocean beats against a rock
the corpse of my grandmother, like marble
i did shake her, seven times to be exact
i did call her, twice
she never responded
the smell of peaches like it was summer
croissant packages being opened on the floor
someone made chapathis
no storytelling today, though
my deck was painted blue, it looked like a cerulean pool
i ate half a peach for breakfast
consumed the other half for lunch
fell asleep in the arms of an aunt i didn't know i had in a white wool poncho
what i don't remember about the day she died:
if i fully understood what death meant
YOU ARE READING
homeland burning
Poetryhear your homeland calling as it burns to ash. 2017, wiildflowerhoney.
