Peppermint Summer
Miniature treasures hidden in my grandmother’s purse.
My fingers scouted out the red and white discs,
and anticipation crackled with the cellophane.
It created a snowball fight on my tongue.
The summer heat dissipated from skin
and coolness slid down my spine,
leaving me in a winter flurry in the middle of July.
Besides
When I finally get home,
you are leftover boxes and loose keys.
My unanswered texts become junk mail
left in my phone.
It is so empty
that my heartbeat echoes
and I search for the noise
of your breathing in the empty cabinets.
You left me
stripped down to bare walls and palms.
I need to learn to be
without your language.
Stretch myself along the walls and find balance
on a floor with no elephants, eggshells or egos.
When I finally get home,
I open the door
and walk into myself once again.
Bus Stops
The bus passed the spots where we had:
our first date, our first kiss, our anniversaries
and our final goodbye.
All boarded up buildings with gravestone windows,
and I left pieces of your ghost
wailing and stomping its feet
at the front door of each of them.
I snipped away your memories
one bus stop at a time.
The hardest part of separate ways
wasn’t the final farewell,
but when I needed to sever myself
from your favorite song, your outline in the bed,
and your name.
Amanda Hawk is Best of the Net-nominated and Pushcart Prize-nominated Poet. She lives in Seattle between the roaring planes and the city’s neon lights. Amanda has been featured in multiple journals including Eye to the Telescope, Rogue Agent and the winnow magazine. She released her first chapbook in 2023 called Rain Stained City. Recently, she placed second in the Seattle Crypticon Horror Short Story contest.
Chantarelle's Notebook 