Sold

A sold sign leans against the brick.
Flowers matted in the garden.
Stems snapped flat by a windstorm.
Raspberries stain the ground.
Bushes picked bare.
I smash a few berries in my palm,
then flick them on my tongue.
A sour sweetness remains.
Do you remember when a starling
made her nest in the wreath we hung for spring?
When you opened the door, she flew off,
leaving her hatchlings.
We wrapped the wreath in black plastic.
Birds at the door are bad luck.

***

Linda Laderman is a 73-year-old Detroit poet. Her poetry has appeared in The Willawaw Journal, The Hole in the Head Review, One Art, and The Write Launch, among others. She workshops with the Poetry Craft Collective, a cohort of poets who critique and encourage each other's writing. For many years, she was a volunteer docent at the Holocaust Center near Detroit, where she led adult discussion tours. Find her at https://lindaladerman.com/.