my pillow reveals a crater,
a center lacking stuffing.
shapeless piñata punched once, and more.
just a basin for stubborn groans
and salt that reminds me
of coffee drops sold at the nearest Walgreens,
the good stuff, keeping my back firm
in an unbolted chair, resolved to finish
and seek distraction in pastel acrylics.
tomorrow, I’ll walk to the local museum
and learn how to properly shade,
defining lines so they conceal the creases
seen for years, around my lips
that fold, confiding in jagged teeth
and the lingering breeze
I will always miss
after the thickest chocolate chai tea latte
that brought me to gurgle at intake.
modest mother sits between two women just as anonymous/ though receptionists often boast about that three-film résumé/ she wears no clips in her calcite hair, cheeks wooden squares he poured profanities over/ stumbling in the morning/ whatever brought life has left the campus/ and we refuse to complete the essays she listlessly assigned/ two men stop by with vodka thrashing against the walls of chipped coffee mugs/ we point at the lack of lids/ they shrug, smirk, and point at modest mother laughing behind the glass/ she only signs contracts blown from glass/ no one can really claim, with certainty, that she threw the glass.
On the weekends, Kristine Brown frequently wanders through historic neighborhoods, saying “Hello” to most any cat she encounters. Some of these cats are found on her blog, Crumpled Paper Cranes (https://crumpledpapercranes.com). Her creative work can be found in Hobart, Sea Foam Mag, Philosophical Idiot, among others, and a collection of flash prose and poetry, Scraped Knees, was released in 2017 by Ugly Sapling.