Dirt is said to heal
By Martha McCollough
Digging, I wait to feel happy— like this sunlight is nice—that moment when you realize you’ve felt some gleam of pleasure, a thing people I know have experienced or so they claim. Yesterday I picked a blue-black iris. Overnight it died, leaking sad flower blood the color of mimeo ink down the side of the white pitcher
Martha McCollough is a writer living in Amherst, Massachusetts. She has an MFA in painting from Pratt Institute. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Bennington Review, The Bear Review, Tammy, Pangyrus, Barrelhouse, Crab Creek Review, and Salamander, among others. Her chapbook, Grandmother Mountain, was published by Blue Lyra Press. Martha's poetry collection, Wolf Hat Iron Shoes, is available from Lily Poetry Review Books.
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Mimeo ink. I had almost forgotten it.