Revision By Renee Williams

Somewhere between Morgan Wallen songs 

and blood orange margaritas is where I find

my peace. When the wild winds sweep

over the hillside, make that long ooohhhh

call, I hear the words, are you lonesome tonight?

Are you lonely or alone, and sometimes

if I’m lucky, you are okay. 

She speaks to me now, after six months.

Twice in as many days. Messages float in.

Tiny drops from heaven, still fresh 

on the morning dew. It’s Holy Week 

and time for those cheap plastic flowers 

from the dollar store to find their way to the cemetery. 

She beat me. Again. Always two steps ahead. 

A massive clump of dandelions, bright 

little rays of sunshine, rise right above

the place where we placed her box. 

How can anyone really beat

smiles from the grave?

After I scared my optometrist

I went to the drugstore for eyedrops.

My bloodshot eyes shine,

probably from allergies, 

or maybe this hellacious wind,

definitely caused by medicine for glaucoma,

but most likely from tears. The clerk 

ran my customer care card, glanced at me,

and asked, Betty? My mother’s name on the card. 

What could I do but smile,

look down and mutter, Hi, Mom.

I lick the sweet sugar off the rim 

of my glass, take a slow slip 

and try to stop beating myself up

for all that I did and did not do.

In the next booth over, some gal

giggles

and giggles. 

Renee Williams is a retired English instructor, who has written for Guitar Digest, Alien Buddha Press and Fevers of the Mind.