No wet blanket,
it kept her dry.
Bottle or can,
didn’t matter.
Kept her warm.
Inside.
Where it matters.
Until it didn’t
let her forget
what ailed her,
what haunted her.
Until it became
a wet blanket
and the fire inside her
died.
Ken Gierke is a retired truck driver, transplanted to mid-Missouri from Western New York. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming both in print and online in such places as The Rye Whiskey Review, Amethyst Review, Rusty Truck, Trailer Park Quarterly, The Gasconade Review, and River Dog Zine. His first collection of poetry, Glass Awash, was published by Spartan Press. His second collection, Heron Spirit, is forthcoming. His website: https://rivrvlogr.com/
I think I know her (knew her, anyway).
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