CAMERON HARAMIA

Unbridled Mourning Garden

I plant all my grief around a penny.      
The penny tries to contain my grief
but it shows up as mold. 
 
Not even my misery can look shiny— 
not even on the least valuable 
coin. But I know where other 
 
green things have found a home. 
I leapt into that abandoned waterfall, 
waiting outside the Cheesecake Factory, 
 
age 9 but the adult of my cousins. 
So many coins 
I could have built a library of tears. 
 
My grandma to grieve, my 9 year old 
sorrow. Grandma granted me 
green beanie babies, where I planted my 
 
joy in three states. The first state: a promise 
of future athletic zen. The second: 
a hope of eternal gerbil jump roping. 
 
The third: a gliding about the walls of crooked 
picture frames—me the cutest, most determined 
eyebrows. I place the moldy penny in 
 
the mouth of my green dragon. 
I tell it not to swallow. 
Just hold it there, a meeting 
 
between past happy, present hardly, present 
present. The dragon’s eyes can’t hold 
up the green. The penny spills 
 
onto the rollercoaster, lets out 
a harrowing shriek & crashes through my childhood 
window. All my cousins are adults now. 
 
All my grandmas deceased.

Cameron Haramia is a California-born Hoosier, who can be found on the dancefloor. He’s danced his way to Memphis, México, and marine animals. Haramia’s poems have appeared in Rogue Agent, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, The Indianapolis Review, & elsewhere.