by Ariel Francisco
Condemned to the kitchen counter
radiated by the heartless
Louisiana sun, so dry they bloomed
into a fire hazard. It’s been weeks.
It’s been months. It’s been seasons.
Even the ants who army crawl
under the window after rain
have stopped exploring those morbid petals.
Even the trashcan gags
as they crumble to dust in its maw.
This is drawn from “We All Have Moons We Long to Return To.”