Are you the fabric of a myth?
Your fly-by-night face and wisdom
is eclipsing my eyesight.
The received bouquet of roses
doesn’t cancel out the weeds of intolerance
that raise up around me as tall as crutches.
I wish I could take out your eyes
and use them as die in a gambling joint.
You always were wishy-washy with me,
cradling me, then disregarding me as vintage trash.
Jeweled in conceited flair
and a taste for transformation in others.
About the Author
AMANDA TUMMINARO lives in Illinois with her family. Her poetry has appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, Squawk Back, Digital Papercut, Oddball Magazine and Three and half point 9, among many others.