Poetry from Alma Ryan

coffee grounds

its autumn now, leaves falling to the earth

creating the next name for a season,

its fall,


an angel, unnamed.

ink dipped feathers shedding from the bubbles

that formed when you fell.


i’ve always wondered what it’d be like to fall,

to plummet.

air resistance resists the death of a human mind.

a mind already dead. dying. 

rot creeping up the lines.


bedtime at 8:30, it becomes 9

dont tell.

the kitchen is dirty.

dont tell.

the dog is still outside.


dont lie to her.

ive already torn that apart.


of the same mistakes

now ive buried my brain in the back yard

in a jar.

sealed with my secrets,

decomposing like coffee grounds.

theres still a song stuck in the throat 

of my skeleton.

decaying on war ground.


moral of the story: nothing good comes from falling.

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