Lauren Amanda Shimulunas

Does anyone still read Walt Whitman?
She wants to know.
That was the day my milk

froze solid in the ancient Kenmore,
the day she said There is nothing wrong
with the shower as she scrubbed

away blue mineral stains
until the cold porcelain shone skull white.
Apple pie without the cheese

is like a kiss without the squeeze she sang,
sharing pie laced with maple ham.
There are latches, not locks on all the doors.

The tiny stove is cast with a scene of wild boars.
Be sure to open the flue before you feed the fire she warns,
and now she wants to know

Does anyone still read Walt Whitman?
as she stands with a worn green book,
letters and sprouts of grass stamped in gold

clutched to her side like a tongue
cut from the mouth
of someone she loved.