by Joy Sullivan
© Joy Sullivan
The way we pay attention now. A fat red tomato asleep in the garden. The neighbor boy offering me his last stick of gum. Wine straight from the bottle. Grief that shelters in our throats. Showering, a ritual unto itself. Bird calls that nibble us awake. The altar of our palms. Shielding strangers with space. Dancing when we want to weep. Sunshine so bright—it invents the lost word between holiness and magic. The way we wash the vegetables these days, so carefully—as if cradling a child.
© Joy Sullivan
Joy Sullivan is a poet living in Columbus, OH. Fascinated by the human experience of empathy and tenderness, her poems bring into focus what is often left unsaid. Her work has appeared in Boxcar Poetry, River Heron Review, Periodisa, and Mirror Dance, among others. You can find her on instagram @joysullivanpoet.
