Okay, florida

Before the hurricane, we had a rosebush.
An avocado tree. Limes. The backyard,
where we hid plastic Easter eggs, buried
the bones of small pets. Irma unearthed
our time capsules, carried them
into the pool. Among the floating:
coconuts, branches from dead trees,
pieces of our wooden fence. It needed repainting,
anyway. The house, too. The front door. The garage.
Nothing untouched by rain or heat. Our street,
a row of identical homes. Two dogs per family.
Fireworks all the time, even after the storm.

About the author

Lauren Milici

Lauren Milici is a Florida native who writes poetry, teaches English, and is currently getting her MFA in Creative Writing somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia. When she isn’t crafting sad poems about sex, she’s either writing or shouting into the void about film, TV, and all things pop culture. @motelsiren