We’ve lost words because of the things we don’t measure anymore. Look, a house can be warm all winter on a cord of wood if one merely considers where to plant the fire, how to arrange steps, ceilings, how to move air. Look, at my backyard full of trees I keep meaning to prune before they become trouble—tall enough to bother a foundation, produce a cord, heat a home. It’s almost Halloween. I’m considering going as yellow. As salt. Look! With a white umbrella. I consider sugar and posting something ponderous like loving your loved ones, with a dreamy dying prairie backdrop. The other day I went to a 50-year-old’s birthday party, where all the women agreed their 30s were the worst. What’s the word for the cup that measures me, that everyone tells me to fill? Look, I just need to know if you love me. Or whatever. Love won’t keep me warm like a burning cord can as I look at all those Emilys and Johns above us, all those silly salt stars sold by whom and for what.
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ONLY POEMS®️ and associated marks are trademarks of ONLY INK, Inc. All individual works are copyrighted by their respective authors. All poems, essays, and artworks published on this site remain the intellectual property of their creators and may not be reproduced without explicit permission. The views expressed in published works are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of ONLY INK, Inc., its editors, or affiliated entities. While many works draw on lived experience, they may contain fictionalized elements; no reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred. ONLY POEMS is an ad-free, independent, reader-supported publication.