By April Hanna
My cheeks still hurt from smiling
Squinting at the day-star
Balling my hands into fists and
Running across the lawn to
Skin my soul on grass
To get first dibs on the honeysuckle bush.
I bathe in sweetness and
Hope to never die I sweat and wonder what the
Insides of a peach look like against the floor.
I’d still love you
Brighter than marigolds on my mother’s
White-tile kitchen wonder.
I wish I knew what those flowers were called
That grew wild on your first front lawn.
April Hanna is a recent graduate from Ramapo College of New Jersey majoring in communication arts with a writing concentration. Born in May (not April), her work focuses on the inevitable humor that exists within the human experience. April is also an avid supporter of the Oxford comma.