Lizzy Burnam 🐞

The best thrift store in town 
is found through a revolving door 
at the base of a lilac tree. 
I went there today and bought 
a wicker basket that begs to be filled 
with rainwater and howls 
when it leaks. I spotted it on a shelf 
behind a bullet, a burning tower, 
and an unbraided money tree. 
My grandmother, the hummingbird, 
tapped twice on the storefront window 
and tossed a song through the glass 
that went like this: twinkle twinkle
little light, I should’ve held you 
nice and tight, before you followed 
bramble dreams that tore you open 
at the seams. I pretended 
not to hear her. I took my time 
digging through rows of knick-knacks, 
an appellate court of subjective utility. 
Could I scrub the blood out of a used bandaid? 
Do I really need another forgone conclusion? 
Is $9.99 too steep a cost for a girl 
about my age twisted up in the vines 
of a velvet-leaf philodendron? 
I saw my own face in a broken mirror
and wondered where it came from. 
Who gives the suicides a second love 
when they scrap their lives away? 
I think I could. I think I’d take them out 
for every summer storm
and hold them while they howled.