Michael, a flavor of blueberries on the wind
made me open the window, reach for you.
I craved your shape. Something I could swallow
and keep, tuck in the corner of my mouth.
The moon knew, washed our skin with glow.
But this morning I was watering my cactus
and I had a feeling you might disappear.
I wanted to ask you why you were already gone
but you were already gone. You were mowing the lawn
across the street.
There’s a bowl of blueberries on the counter.
I will make a pie and put it on the windowsill. I can love you.
—Published 19th of September 2019
About Sarah A. Etlinger
Sarah A. Etlinger is a Pushcart-nominated poet and the author of two chapbooks, Never One for Promises and Little Human Things. Look for recent poems at Neologism Poetry Journal, Mookychick, Bramble, and the Amethyst Review. She lives in Milwaukee with her family. Find her at www.sarahetlinger.com and on Twitter at @drsaephd.