wooden walls and government seals
and the honorable this
and that, a half-shaded window
gazes outside at cars driving about, to work,
to the store, to appointments. She remembers
not the day she stood in a field bright with dying sun
wearing a red dress and pearls, the promises
of faith, of trust, of love, of course love,
and the slide of old rings onto trembling fingers. Not that.
She remembers years
earlier, coming home and sprawling on the bed
with him, with a feast of cheap
tacos, propping pillows around
her growing belly-child. She held his face
in both hands. They were so hungry,
and there was so much food.
— Melissa Sewell
Melissa Sewell lives in Topeka, Kansas, where she slings coffee and scrubs her daughter’s painty fingerprints from the walls. She loves raspberries and being divorced. Her poems have resided in Susquehanna Review, Inscape, seveneightfive magazine, and the upcoming Kansas City Voices.