Poetry

The sunflowers shine with crooked teeth. Miniature versions of suns.

He, the complicated cause of me. Never, ever easy. Too similar or simply opposites.

Toast with zing, cut diagonally, sugar and cinnamon-candy for breakfast.

Clinging, the kitchen remembers my world in black and white, damn the color.

I refuse to admit I am starved for refuge.

Mom-capped Mom. She’s tired, slumped, surrounded by six little ones.