August winds promise love.
Crowns become midnight
then amber, then snow.
The love never arrives.
A railroad haunts the living room.
Three steps closer
& the train thunders past
knocking me backwards onto the sofa.
The kettle whistles. I make tea.
Mother tends the snapdragons
in the evening sun. Womb-lidded eyes—
houseboats rock upon bright fog.
Another meteor shower flickers out. Tomorrow,
the stench of blasted apples.
Amee Nassrene Broumand is an Iranian-American poet from the Pacific Northwest. Nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, her work has appeared in Sundog Lit, Empty Mirror, Menacing Hedge, Barren Magazine, Word Riot, & elsewhere. She occasionally blogs for Burning House Press. Find her on Twitter @AmeeBroumand