I am fortunate only now to learn the color
of fresh death. Pallid. Parched, even when
waterlogged like bread chasing butter. Once
my sisters and I dropped tiny brine shrimp
into a fishbowl and called them primates. A
step on the evolutionary branch swelling, I
watched them wondering if people were ever
so small. My father removed them limp with
a slotted spoon, but they remained brimming
and pink. This boy is different. His mother
wipes dust from his forehead. She will bury
him, gray, without a name.
Julien Griswold (they/them) thinks insurance agencies should cover notebook costs as therapy expenses. When they aren’t laying their thoughts bare in said notebooks, they study at Brown University. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Palette Poetry, Pinhole Poetry, The /temz/ Review, Poetry Online, and elsewhere.
instagram: @cheerupjulien