by Parker G. Jamieson

September sunset—
Please, call me when you get home—
backroom dial tone.

No—I remember
the long morning, you took straw
and sculpted a sun.

Footsteps in the hall—
The fiery leaves of fall—
I was there, crying.

A withering rose.
I clutch upon your absence—
My heart’s a glass vase.

My lungs need you—yes!
Minnesota air. I cry.
We’ll never cross paths.

My heart: wicker house—
Pray, don’t use the fireplace
I’m already ash.

The autumnal equinox:
Your birthday—I pine for
The fact of your bones

&
&

Parker G. Jamieson

Parker G. Jamieson is a poet from Woodlawn, NY. They struggle with negative mental patterns, but they remain in love with humanity and basking in the anthropomorphic fable of human existence. They go to college at the University @ Buffalo. In their free time, they read the poetry of up-and-coming writers and they contemplate our small world, which is finally coming along.

Artist: Anna Garrett