Queer Poem-a-Day is a program from the Adult Services Department at the Library and may include adult language.
Last night, Naomi, I typed piano music where you can hear the pianist breathing into my browser.
I tried to write to you at one a.m. and couldn’t begin, the habit of morning-letters already set.
Last night the ivory ranunculus—birthday flowers from a friend, the friend newly and still in love—finally opened on my writing desk, bright until their heads hung from the weight of their openness.
At my desk I searched for two women fucking and found nothing intimate enough to arouse me.
I refreshed my Twitter feed after a woman tweeted so often we sleep through the horrors of the world.
Last night I did not sleep, but I did nothing kind with my wakefulness.
I bought two books of poems online with the sole intention of reading them to you, thinking about how they would make you feel.
Last night I read that the season for ranunculus is April and felt guilty for my atemporal hungers.
For loving flowers that flatten the world.
Copyright © 2021 by Rachel Mennies. Used with the permission of the author. Previously appeared in On the Seawall on January 5, 2021.