A fresh loaf of rye bread, the plastic lip of the bag stuck
to the counter in a palm print of margarine, standing sentinel.

The golden hour, cheap wallpaper peeling
against the smoke of a portable grill.

Stars launder themselves on the line of the sky,
scrabbling to be jewels, softening in the smog.

The moon is a back floating in black water,
bloating with the passing days.

The blowflies that wish to drink from your mouth
will all have their chance.

Contributor Bio:

Zenaida Smith is a writing residency facilitator, book maker, and general good-time Charlie. She lives deep in the woods of North Carolina.