dear robert smith,
i found out on the day i was thick-wet-heat i found out on the day i tussled through the weeds and morphed into sunflower- the day the teal from my doctor’s eyes pooled in my ridges, and i stared up at a nibbled skythe day i smelled good like lemon cake
(tussled)
dear robert smith,
during one of my morning sob sessions the nutso lady from across the street knocked on my door and asked me for a stamp. she said she needed a stamp because she was sending an urgent letter to her ex demanding he pay child support or she’s gunna drag his ass into court. when i gave her the stamp she told me i’m the only person she could think of who might actually have a spare stamp, and when i pulled an entire book of stamps out of my wallet she acted as if i had just pulled a rabbit out of my asshole.
(stamp)
dear robert smith,
what do you say or do when suzie mctotallyfullo’shite yells across a crowded room at work, “i want you to know i would gladly give you one of my kidneys, but i’m just soooo busy?”
(o’shite)
Christine Tierney has an MFA, a BA, a brand spanking-new deodorant without aluminum, and a new collection of poetry titled chicken+lowercase=