National Poetry Month: day 11/poem 11

This next poem was written to be published but I don't think it ever made the cut (if it did, I've since lost that particular periodical).


grandma O (Organs and Orchards and Opium)

Laying on the floor of grandma’s church
I feel the cold wood hard against my bones
Smell the baptized varnish
Taste the lukewarm holy water
Thinking of church organs enveloping my soul
Organs and Orchards and Opium

Flying through the trees on grandma’s old swing
I feel the salty breeze penetrate my pores
Smell the sticky sweet honeysuckle
Taste her cinnamon apple pie
Thinking of apple orchards encircling my body
Organs and Orchards and Opium

Hiding with Alice in grandma’s attic
I feel the effects of a strong drug in my blood
Smell the dust of ancient artifacts
Taste the bitter pill of life fading into the past
Thinking of caterpillar opium enticing my mind
Organs and Orchards and Opium