Eve Rounds

you’re not invited

woke to the sound of
my mom’s voicemail…then
her broken voice
and…nothing. in. between…then
my feet on broken glass
glossy white paint flawless
save the place where…he…
a list of my book recommendations
sitting on the passenger side
my second favorite place to be inside his…still
those are some of my favorite books.

today is not significant
the date nor the weather nor my afternoon plans
grief invites itself
to morning coffee. grocery shopping. trashy tv.
grief is the most unwelcome guest
monday through monday
on a road trip
a tropical vacation
when i wake.

those fucking subaru commercials with car accidents
the wreckage
my trauma
grief’s invitation

good morning untitled

what happens now save every voicemail not that his tone would have been forgotten but to hear him call me tweety as many times as

snip snip

the magic of a fresh cut i am literally lighter though not by much my shoulders have less to lug my neck has less to

but ok but

write some poems that i can give him ok (but they’ll all be about the hims) good idea bad idea no good twinning and losing

a 5 7 5 for e

peering through thick glass your back to me is waiting any news at all? running down broad steps into your brotherly arms crying without breath!


is it the ticking of the third hand or the faucet dripping onto discount bulk blueberries both measuring time “going in circles” as he would

a poem about you for you (and you)

you are your own though your temperament reminds me of him your head is more ripe mango while his was more soft plum my love