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C.N.P Poetry 

  • Writer's pictureCathexis Northwest Press


By: Laura Ohlmann

At Mom's grave, I brush the sugar ants away

with my fingertips and empty out the copper basin

that once held living flowers. No one has visited

in months, and what remains is dead

scattered beneath my feet. A woman brings

birthday balloons to her dead beloved

while I prep new flowers to be placed

on the grave. Around the stones, moss and twigs

gather in memoriam, while Dad sleeps in bed.

How long will it be until I'm scattering his ashes

along the wind like pollen falling from this bouquet?

Everything we do is to remember:

the dresser left in the hallway full of Mom's clothes,

the shirts folded the same as fifteen years earlier,

the grass picked away from the plate to reveal

carved daffodils that will never bloom, or die.


Laura Ohlmann is a Florida poet and an MFA graduate from the University of Central Florida. Her work is forthcoming in The Rumpus, The Lindenwood Review, and The New Southern Fugitives and has appeared in The Maine Review, Honey&Lime, and South Florida Poetry Journal. She enjoys sleeping in her converted Honda Element and biking up mountains with her partner and dog.


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