by Elizabeth D. Jennings
the sun sags lower in my windshield
than it did last week. i can’t blame her; the weight
of it all, it makes a girl tired. i think i’ll nap
when i get home, curl like a cat
on top of the covers, curtains open
so the pink-strained evening
can get in. i won’t miss
the cicada-shrieked heat of summer,
the sweat stains and bracelets
of mosquito bites. it’s just
mom’s tomatoes are about done for the year
and damn if hers aren’t a million times
better than the soft red things
that walmart sells.
Elizabeth D. Jennings is a math teacher based in Northwest Arkansas. Her work explores themes of family, religion, and the extraordinary made ordinary.
January House Literary Journal 
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