Flush Left | Melinda Thomsen | 01 19 23

Day #15, 10 Mar 2022

You’ve got an hour to decide
what to carry from your life. 
I look at my phone, charger, passport, 
password list, wallet, and one 16lb
cat, one 8lb cat, a chicken, 
and a husband.

On your way to the border,
you remember what you couldn’t carry:
the 100 year old piano, a change 
of clothing, an extra jacket, and tooth paste.

If you and your belongings make it 
to the border, how will you feed
your cats, chicken, and husband?  

How much will a sandwich cost
when your lives cost nothing? 

Listen to the prayers made
before your body was unrolled 
from the tarp. You were loved.

—Submitted on 09/28/2022

Melinda Thomsen is the author of Armature (Hermit Feathers Press, 2021. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Artemis, Poetry Miscellany, Hermit Feathers Review, The Ekphrastic Review, THEMA, and Salamander Magazine. She is an advisory editor for Tar River Poetry. She lives in North Carolina with her husband, two cats, and one chicken.

Editor’s Note: The series title Flush Left refers to the fact that, due to our limited WordPress skills, we are only considering poems that are flush left. Poems already in our Submittable queue that have simple non-flush-left formatting may be considered for publication.

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