Last week, I couldn’t afford therapy,
so I bought flowers instead.
Ranunculi and roses, fern and blazing star.
A modest bouquet of beauty,
beholden only to the breeze between.
Unlike me—modernity’s stupid bride.
Wringing my dread, counting my debt.
It’s endless, endless. Dial a friend,
thread our lament. We pledge allegiance to
despair, we drown in ocean breath.
On a walk toward nowhere, my mom instructs me
to remember the psalms,
then asks for some change.
Whose God will be my sugar daddy?
Whose God will pay my rent?
At least I have this posy; unloyal lover,
twinkling between my thumbs.
I cradle it firmly, prepare it
to eat the sun.

Loré Yessuff is a writer based in New York City. Her poetry and prose have been featured in The New York Times, The Brooklyn Rail, American Chordata, and other publications. She writes a casual newsletter about meaning, culture, and modern life: poembutter.substack.com.