by Dyson Waite-Himmelwright

Beaches teach me
to hold a grudge:

a wave delivers me
to a mouth full of sand.

My father makes Jesser’s 
stew and I close my windows

as he smokes cigars. Always 
on drought rations, Ms. Wilson

says, “If it’s yellow, let it 
mellow…” For a while

the sunflower volunteers
come in and die just right;

before Halloween. Feral 
cats stalk the big brown 

stalks and my father’s
father doesn’t remember us.  

I don’t know when 
I learn not to be taut. 

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