[Issue 10 / August 2014]

repression obsession and muted confession
and sometimes a little like dirt
the plastic he blows on the lawn he should mow on
the touch of the first girl he hurt

(so that’s where the strawberries came from)

slices of meat baked in unnatural heat
and sometimes a salad of egg
to play and to eat in bed layers of sheet

and the tousled sweat curled on his head

(he won’t cut it to please his old mum)

all rolled in a sock that’s hard as a rock
but still clings to his newly stretched feet
that look like his dad’s and clings to the fads
the shoes the one thing kept neat

(but he can’t hide that he is their son)


Melanie Griffin lives in Columbia, South Carolina. Her day job is in Human Resources at her favorite public library. She has published poetry in Eunoia Review, Exercise Bowler, Loewstoft Chronicle, the Charlotte Viewpoint, A Sense of the Midlands and Grievances: A Zine.