Milk Money


Like a pair of dead roses

let’s sing in the park.

When Gretta finds us,

she will put us in a white vase

no matter how dark

our singing.

I don’t know about you,

but I adore Gretta.

When she goes to the hospital,

I paint portraits of her in oil

on paper plates.

I tape them to green waves

in the lake on Falcone’s private

land. It’s his money and dread,

he can be an abomination

if he wants, for there’s money enough

to silence god

and his god, too.

As for you, my best friend,

with your open mouth

a dandelion

rendered in purple pastel,

not tonight.



Christopher Prewitt is a writer from eastern Kentucky. His poems have appeared in Vinyl Poetry, Ghost Ocean Magazine, Four Way Review, Merida Review, and many others.

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