Interrupted Magnolias

I met a man I barely knew for tea —
to see if I might catch the tail 
of something hard to hold, the way we do 
when we hear it’s raining meteors. 

In mere counter-moments 
we were mourning milestones robbed by frost —
promises made mummies 
destined to summer, tombs on limbs. 

My insides rearranged 
and I swore I heard our ghosts call —
we weren’t strangers anymore.
We turned to aprons 
hid behind in childhood kitchens, 
to cartilage and artichokes
and finally finding our songs; the lineage
of grandmothers keeping close 
their boys who love boys, 
and the granddaughters drawn to them. 

And when death came knocking,
I stood at the door, unsure 
if I should be there, 
until he swept me to the couch
where we ate olives in homage
and recalled the interrupted magnolias.


Adriana Stimola (she/her) is a non-fiction literary agent, mother and ever-aspiring poet. Her poetry has been featured in numerous publications, including: The Santa Clara Review, the San Pedro River Review, Beyond Words, Harbor Review, House Journal, Juke Joint, Touchstone Literary Magazine and High Shelf Press.