It may be where you linger all day
in bed listening to opera
eating hot fudge from the jar
no one caring if you wear clothes
days of sugar on the tongue.
Yes, I may have already been there
thought I was simply home
planting tulips–
before my son asked why bother
before I answered
digging pleases me though
I wasn’t sure that was true.
Or maybe it’s all ahead–
coin in my mouth, the muddy Styx,
Charon dropping me off, ferns,
bromeliads, spirits surviving on air
like epiphytes.
And so I arrive.
My son sits cross-legged
waiting for me
mist-filled orchid air
hi I say
hi he says
let me show you around.
About the Poet
Grace Massey is a former editor who has returned to writing after many years. When she’s not writing, she studies ballet and trains undersocialized cats to become adoptable. She has been published in Spry and The Ekphrastic Review, among a few others.
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.
Vita Brevis Press. 