By Amelia K.
Bloodsick and crumbling like first place ribbons you can’t eat, and no one wants to
preserve
a peach gone soft at the height of the season greet pain that makes atheists out of
so called saints tying
ribbons on a lover’s wrists scarless like a baby no one asked for
and no one is allowed to give back, so (why)
place a ribbon on her head (or why not)
Amelia K. (she/her) lives in Georgia with her son. Her work has appeared in Cordite, Dirt, ctrl+v, and others. Every year on her birthday, she writes a poem about Lot’s Wife as a way of literally and metaphorically looking back and honoring the past year.