2 poems

by Caitlin Upshall

peanut butter & jelly

On days when my grief is too loud, I put in ear plugs and roll away from her in bed but she finds me anyway and I wake up with a hand across my chest that makes it hard to breathe and when she refuses to leave, I decided to spend the day with my grief; see, they say you should feed a cold and starve a fever, but I don’t know which one she is so, instead, I make her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich but I leave the crusts on and we go to a park but she pulls a shadow from the trees and I feed the ducks but she wails a swan song and I don’t want to invite her to my favorite places but she leads the way, knowing each one better than I do and eventually, when the sun has set and we are home, I fall asleep on the couch, a small hand resting on my chest, making each breath difficult and each one something to be thankful for.

flat

there are no mountains there

my Oregonian mother spends

months trapped in a paper picture

searching up

for heights left unconquerable

any perch for the gods

years after she leaves the paper picture

Washington breaks loudly atop a geological conversation

and my Oxfordian father understands 

why we do not yell

Caitlin Upshall (she/her/hers) holds a B.A. in English from Western Washington University and is currently based in the United Kingdom. When she's not writing, she enjoys most things dinosaur-related and trivia nights. You can find her on Instagram at @CaitlinUpshall or at www.caitlinupshall.com.