'she shouldn't bake' and 'leave it to the birds' by Amy Barrett
Image from Unsplash
she shouldn’t bake
growing beside gurgles, an adventurous eight
back when just a crumb
in an oven free from disturbance
as a sleeping blondie bun.
my mother’s plodding months a breeze
until I couldn't flourish for nine
eager to enter our mangled globe
a cherry coated bun.
at a time we don't remember
(but really wish I did)
the most loved I have ever been
a breast encompassed bun.
the years grew wings, a forgettable eight
connections postponed and numb
handheld to leave a tippling home
a deflated blondie crumb.
Image from Unsplash
leave it to the birds
A florist shows love through a few
bunched up beauties and thoughts about you
but something’s been rotting
and never forgotten
that alive and well, once they were too.
Words by Amy Barrett
Image from Unsplash
Editing by Emily Gough