from the Fall issue: Vinita Agrawal. Summer We Called Home.

pea river journal


Unfulfilled promises jangle like an empty syringe of morphine
sprinkling the pain of blockages further into the veins

The chapel at the turn of the street cob-webbed with morbid confessions
They tar its facade, reduce it to a box of walls when faith disappears

I cannot pray anymore. I am sunk in the creek, in a jungle of letting-go.
When rescued, I’ll make triangular boats and float them in your name, like water flags

Seasons will come and go and I will continue to sing the songs you wrote for me
from between the jowls of my December mufflers

Will continue to torch the corners that failed to receive light
in the spell binding, fleeting, summer of our love

a summer we called home

birds copy

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