Poetry from Angela Ramos

Photo: Matt Artz

Silt Mounds

like this – now
put pressure on the wound.

the swollen Palina cigar box filled with
memories and movements of me:
my grandfather’s poker chips, clicking and scraping,
red white and blue against one another; an
iridescent turkey feather from the
woods out back; that note from Violet,

“you are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”
the pressed petals from an oriental poppy, like ruby
tissue paper, still warm with summer years old, caught
between diary pages, snatches of bad
verse; the key that opens nothing; the buffalo tooth

strung on a slender thong of indigo
leather; the thick lock of hair, bleached
and bubble gum pink, sheared from
my son’s clever skull, not yet born,
not yet broke free

from me;

the bloated dead that were scraps of letters –
all disintegrated now, broken into their most
meaningless pieces by the flood. you know
The Flood. so many bodies
buried in the water there.

but really,
how long is a cigar box
built to last?
.

.

Angela Ramos is the proud matriarch of a supremely modern family based in Madison, WI. She currently works in the mental health field after earning a degree in Psychology and English Literature as a returning adult student. Angela penned her first story, “Wally the Worm,” at age four and has been smitten with words ever since. Her work has appeared in The Main Street Rag, Paper Darts, Fearsome Critters, and Sheila-Na-Gig.

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