​pastel-flecked rivulets
curling across the sidewalk wash
into a storm drain–

the evanescence of childhood.
chalky crumble of meringue
on the tongue.

the crimp of pain
behind my eyes, migraine
efflorescing

like the sudden exuberance of blooms
on the bradford pear, cheaply
beloved of blowflies

and urban planners. fetid stench
of what should have been sweet: 
childhoods curdled

like milk left out in the heat
of the tin-can car.
an aftertaste of unhappiness

stale-sour in the mouth.
the faltered smile,
a final quiet,

the used-tissue feel 
of wilted flowers–
root-bound youth and queasy unease.

how the cul-de-sac children
have scattered, bruised petals, 
to the rains of adulthood.
​​
Michaela Mayer is a 26-year-old poet and educator from Virginia. Her work has previously appeared in Claw & Blossom, Perhappened, Q/A Poetry, Barren Magazine, Feral Poetry, Olit, Monstering Mag, MAYDAY Magazine, and others. She can be found on Twitter @mswannmayer5.
image: aaron chavez via unsplash