Today, the sunflower
echoes the aging banana on our counter,
each one speckling into death.
I think of death
differently every day. My father’s
voice on the phone as he lies flat
on the hardwood floor,
straightening out his collapsing spine.
My mother’s wet eyes staring into the round,
empty mouth of her wine glass.
My grandmother is the ceiling
I lift my eyes to.
How it will happen to me,
or how it cannot happen to you.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 3.
Molly Johnsen holds an MFA from Syracuse University. Her work can be found in Nashville Review, Indiana Review and others. She lives in Vermont.
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