RWB Workshop Poem of the Week—August 27

Mary Ma

Nothing tastes the way it used to

I can’t find any hair ties,
and I have two unfinished sewing projects 
and one untouched first draft,
and we need to take out the recycling.

Instead, I’m trying to write something new
and, I swear to god, every barista 
behind the counter 
is zoning out 
in my direction.
I zone out too.

I keep thinking of this house 
on our block. I pass it on the way 
to our car. The front is all garden,
no lawn.

The patch of grass 
between the sidewalk and the curb 
is filled with large stones. They’re warm 
and round. 

In the patch, there’s a small path 
barely wider than my feet. 
I like to walk on it the same way 
I like to grab the leaves 
when no one is looking.

When you’re born, there won’t be much green,
but we can visit the stones.

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