Monday June 13, 2016
The Martian Chronicles
I know that there’s a theme here. Or themes. A handful, like raspberries kissed with mould, picking out the ones that are still good enough to eat. Do these themes spoil? Juice staining hands red. A map of a place that I keep going back to.
I read seven poems that my mother sends me in an email attachment. I shiver, reading them on the bus. The raspberry juice is on her hands too.