a sunday at my grandmother’s by Taylor Millaway

a sunday at my grandmother’s
Taylor Millaway

A yellow kitchen displays the
Bright morning sunrise over the windowsill
Counter tops, freshly
Eyes like blood follow me and
From the wall phone, you can still hear him yelling,
God save the Queen
Heaven is a living room and
I’ve always thought so,
Just ask the mismatched socks who took refuge under those couch cushions
Kneeling down at the altar, I’d color in my books
Look how I can stay inside the lines, I’d say
Moon pies filling the insides of my cheeks like gauze
Navy blue fibers veil the stain from the time I spilled
Orange crush on the carpet
Praying that my father didn’t see, hands folded under the
Quilt carefully stitched by the matriarchy
Reading was my refuge, just ask my doll, she watched me
Search for spring flowers in the jumbo word-find pad
The air smelled of red, cinnamon, home, fertility
Underneath that front porch I am born again,
Victorious, I’m on top of the world but the
Wishing well in the front yard lapped up my words, swallowed them, belched them up
XIXI, the day will never be forgotten
You are never alone, says my bracelet, but sometimes the only
Zen I have is from finding the tulips

Taylor Millaway is a 19 year old Greensboro native who spends too much of her time sitting on the floor of Ed Mckay’s Used Books + More. She is chronically late and very bad at math.

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