Tree in the Early Mourning

Watching 

the flat white clouds 

melt onto the field. The  

subdued earth suffocates—my breath

quickens. 

At parties I sit quiet and calculate my words

I avoid the eyes of guys and stare at my phone. 

After all that hiding, 

dissatisfaction feels like heartburn, 

crying over a simple email 

the lasts build a lump in my throat 

last time beaming onstage 

signing yearbooks 

wearing a stiff blue skirt