Snowdrops 

after my mother tells me 
I’ll end up old and alone
I escape my studio apartment 
into light spring rain, over 
muddy yards where snowdrops
and pansies bud—the beginning of 
a new season, the ebbing away 
of sullied slush, the indescribable 
optimism of the earth renewing itself
soft and sweet and surprising, this rain
makes me feel as I have not for months
I do not have my phone or anyone
to talk with, just the beating rain, 
the pressure a reminder that I am still here
little bursts of hope that form puddles 
beneath my boots, that spread warmth despite
the chilly wind, that take me back to days as a child
in my parent’s backyard, searching not for anyone
but overturning rocks, open and eager to see what 
new insects I might find, open to see, in the rain, how 
everything might appear different from the day before 




Bubble Wrap

My father brings me bubble wrap
to stomp on and crush, to make noise
when I’ve trained myself to be quiet

I leap on each bubble, the pressure of my foot
against the bubble wrap, the satisfaction
of squashing away what I’ve been given
of claiming my space once more

About the author:

Erin Jamieson (she/her) holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. Her writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including a Pushcart Prize nomination. She is the author of a poetry collection (Clothesline, NiftyLit, Feb 2023). Her latest poetry chapbook, Fairytales, is available from Bottlecap Press. Find her on Twitter @erin_simmer. 

Feature image by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash