the adults speak of Uncle Ray’s life in long, mournful sentences
while I pluck tufts of feathers from the green brocade
and blow them like dandelion seeds
but my wishes do not bring him back
All in grief stories
Unripe Plums: A.E. Schulz
Not the black
of the ripe plums with the honey flesh that I loved
to eat in the summer, always remembering
how the juice could drip onto the pages of a book
if I wasn’t careful.
