*
The stain on the ceiling
reminds me of an old boyfriend.
I menstruated through his bed sheet.
I hope he never got it out.
*
I am ready to accept
I’ll never be beautiful.
No matter how I line my eyes,
they can see.
*
Looking back,
I should have prayed less.
My sins failed to thrive.
They died like lame animals.
*
My mother left me
a wing-back chair I sit in
sometimes, refusing
to think of her in paradise.
*
I am drawn to sadness
but not anguish.
I have the melancholy
of a half opened umbrella.
Amy Thatcher is a native Philadelphian where she works as a public librarian. Her poems have been nominated for Best New Poets 2024. Her work has been published in Guesthouse, Bear Review, SWWIM, Rhino, Rust + Moth, Crab Creek Review, Iron Horse Review, and is forthcoming in The Shore, Spoon River Poetry Review, and Denver Quarterly.