Happy Birthday, Kendra Jean.
I’ll quite often on these birthdays—
[or] on a magnificent Monday
while grocery shopping,
[or] on a random Friday while writing—
pick a bunch of roses up and tell myself
I’m buying them for them.
Their initial beauty is inspiring,
as red as rage,
blooming in shadows of my basket,
cut brief by grief.
As their petals fall,
I recall the poetic minutes
that make the moments
that make the memories.