She left me keys to a house where no one can live. They’re tearing it down Tuesday and putting a vape shop in, but today they razed the lilacs, shore their heads like enlistees, a violet bloodbath of petals dying on the front lines. Had they known how she sang to them each morning, a cathead biscuit tucked into each pocket for the squirrels, perhaps they’d understand why I gulp gasped in the grass of her lawn— their lawn— as the flower clusters collapsed and branches trapped me breathless in a driveway I no longer knew.
Kaitlyn Owens is a product manager and poet based in Richmond, Virginia. With roots in Indiana and Tennessee, she writes both formal and free verse poetry exploring family history, identity, and modern relationships. Her work has appeared in Hare’s Paw, Canvas Creative Arts Magazine, and Wingbeats: Exercises and Practice in Poetry, and she is completing her first collection of poetry.