I Wish
By Eileen Murphy

Grandma, I wish
you were still alive
so we could sit down
at the formica table
in your hot sticky kitchen
in Tampa, and sip Cokes
from the bottle and eat
grapes to keep cool.

You always handed me a few bucks
saying, I know money burns
a hole in your pocket,
then you'd laugh, because you didn't mind
the way I was.

I wish we could go shopping.
I'd buy you a pair of red shoes.
You always liked shoes.

I wish I could wrap you
into a piece of bread.
I'd carry you around in my purse
and when I needed you I'd sneak a tiny bite
and let you dissolve
on my tongue.


I have been writing poetry for many years, but recently moved back to Lakeland, Florida, where I grew up, in order to concentrate on writing and to escape my previous lawyer career. I live with my boyfriend who is also a writer, my dog Mish, my cat Lucky, and my fish Finny, Nubie and Peter. We are surrounded by cow pastures and orange groves, and try to grow most of our own produce. We share the back yard with a family of foxes, a bunch of black snakes, at least one gopher turtle, and about a million mosquitoes.

I have published poetry in KotaPress Journal, The Louisville Review, Emergence, The Kerf, Poetry Motel, Neovictorian/Cochlea, George & Mertie's Place, Lonzie's Fried Chicken, The Post-Amerikan and Black Dirt, short stories in Hair Trigger and Emergence, and a book review in Rhino.


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