For Your Convenience

My thoughts have been…

into an aging system of

into blocks of text on a

into digestible

And packed
into a can of

So when I stick on the label,
I hardly recognize them.

And by the time they’re
shipped out to stores,
it’s all no wonder.

It’s all no wonder
no one’s buying it.


Summer Evening

It would be so beautiful,
if not for the weather.
I’m caught by a
billowing haze and
a red horizon.
It’s so deathly hot,
there’s no air to breathe,
yet I must carry the body
in front of Father.

I stumble
up the hill,
my feet catching the
tall grass.
Father pushes me
to keep walking.
I will learn what death means.

When we reach the top,
Father points to the hole.
This is where we bury her.
I lay her
feet first,
head last
into the grave,
covering and watching
her face
hide away
under the soil.
Nothing will grow here.

I know what death means.
Father taught me.
There is no God.
There is only
what you do
during the day
before you fall away
into a pit,
or a pile of ashes
with the setting sun.


Sandra White is a writer in Upstate New York. Her literary efforts began when she was a teenager doing her best Pink Floyd impression. Her poems are based on personal experiences and obscure observations of everyday living. She once found a decaying coydog skull in the woods, which she cleaned and kept in a bag in her room over the summer before her mom threw it away. Follow her online at and