Sometimes I still lick honey straight from the jar but Mama I think I’ve outgrown these poems. You know. The ones where I don’t say enough and a forest only burns when there’s fire. And I’m sorry I let the orchid rot and I don’t know that must mean something like maybe the orchid was me and you forgot the watering can. But do you remember the man from last year? He kissed me bruised me said I know how to make you feel good and Mama maybe that’s not how it happened at all. That’s the funny thing about memory. It shines like a coin but then the more you stop sharing it sinks in the soil and people stop caring because they have more important trees to save. But Mama. I’m like a maple with mildew and there’s no one here to save me.
Taylor Hamann Los holds a Bachelor of Arts in English and professional writing from Carroll University and an MLIS from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Split Rock Review, Rust + Moth, Interstellar Literary Review, Whiskey Island, and others. She lives with her husband in Wisconsin. Twitter: @taylorhamannlos; Website: taylorhamannlos.wordpress.com.