Late October

Trash bags filled

the kitchen floor,

I begged him

at the door

he said it

would be okay.

I thought it

was, my mother

blamed it on

the years of

tearing down

walls like onion

skins, a cry

for their loose

marriage held

by the wide

spreading arms

a newborn

child, a lack

of any


in home and

in their health.

The lights grew

dim in the

place I used

to call home.

I fell through

the cracks in


broken tiles,

my brother

pulled me out

from the hole

that was made.

An empty dresser

open, my

parents’ room

top drawer filled

with knotted

ties between


and work, I

took up space

in the back

of the cold

bottom drawer,

my brother

filled the space

between the

floor and me,

my mother

was filling

the open tiles.


My Sweet

My sweet, you are rotten teeth

eating away at sticky honey

thin walls barely holding the roof

of a decaying mouth holding you hostage,

trapped like the dried crust

around the necks of lonely

mustard bottles left in the fridge

far too long overdue for departure.

You are the relief in the snow

turned dark from the pavement

striped reflective coats shoveling

underneath burnt street lights

My love, you are also the sheets in my bed

paisley print greeted by the stream

of bright sunlight peering through the blinds

every morning, cat paws clawing into your

delicate skin yet you still smile back at them

you shine brighter than the string lights

climbing my chlorophyll tinted walls

glistening like oil on a heated pan

Your fingers burn every surface their

tender pads touch yet it is their most

gentle display of affection they put towards

another human being, my sweet.



When you promise her gold

a galaxy all her own

speaking with your tobacco tongue

and liquored lips

your eyes shining

like the bottles lying

across the house,

she begins to rise.

Her heart, bigger than

every gold filled cave

once plentiful, now tarnished

trickling rain diminishes her smile

her drenched body on the ground

she can’t lift herself up from the

weight of your grey

face, how you stare

back at her darkening eyes

dull like a knife a final

slice into her beating organ

an open backed wound

but I know that she will

rise from the dirt.

She will sing hymns towards the sky

hoping the rain will sing back

and at 4am she will wake me up

tell me let’s take a drive to

the beach, then watch the sun

rise and crash into waves

she will grow gardens

around where you would stand

fill them with daffodils and

sunflowers, nourish them with

your favorite whiskey

until the sun dries to soil

and she will continue to pour

the bottles into the ground

hoping you will drink it too.

And when those flowers die

and the mud around it bakes

she and the flowers will rise again.


Sage Fournier is an illustrator and writer living in Lowell, MA. They are currently in the process of earning their Bachelor of Fine Arts at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly, MA and plan to graduate in the spring of 2019. They are geared towards a concentration in illustration with a minor in creative writing, making work in both fields that reflects and shares their renditions of love through struggle and revival. They plan to continue illustration and writing after graduation to pursue a career in concept art and cinematic storytelling.