It begins in anise
and ends in Asheville


these things we call homes               skins & plywood, insignificant fabric
minor tones that sing                         inside our heads. Paper bags filled
with artichoke, papaya                     a loud humming. The beginning was
small                               of failed namings                        forget-me-nots splashing
petals down our throats.                       The weeds grow in thicker
next to the highway                            a warning or a slow glowing. Mornings
seem like ours, quite quiet                  white nothings. We push strollers
loaded down with cans                      of black-eyed peas. The road keeps being
black. A strip of licorice.                    A long lonely taste.

-Amy Fetzer Larakers (blossombones)

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