by Erin Jamieson
you eat an expired granola bar thinking
if you had an extra thirty dollars you could buy
the shoes your son has outgrown or
the car to replace the one that died after
twenty years of service
you press your face to the window and the
coolness feels like a caress a feeling that
your body is not yours not the
arthritis in your wrists from
the conveyer belts or the fatigue that seeped
inside of you some years ago
at home your son will ask if
you had a good day if you
think he and you will still
be in this apartment next month
when september falls to ashy
October and the streets are lined with prayers
Erin Jamieson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University of Ohio. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in After the Pause, Into the Void, Flash Frontier, and Foliate Oak Literary, among others, and her fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She currently teach English Composition at the University of Cincinnati-Blue Ash College and also works as a freelance writer.