the evening heat thick
with the leftover rain
hanging in the air
clinging to the green leaves
the weight pulling them
toward the damp earth
where the grass grows
thick glowing gold
in the evening sun
come from behind
the storm clouds
all tension is gone
except what’s between us
and how you raised your brows
from across the room
that said more
than anything
I could ever write down
The garden grew so big
Every year
Me and my dog would walk through the tomato plants
Snatching and eating to our hearts’ desire
I’d throw one in his mouth
He would hold a plant still to pick a cherry tomato off
Knee-deep in briars and mud
And hiding in the pumpkin vines
I’d scooch my way out without a single person spotting me
My dog, however, would run out,
Jump in the pond,
Howl, and
Let everyone know exactly who he was
I had scratches on me a mile long
Bruises so yellow and
Matted short brown hair
When the winter came the weeds
Died and the ground got crunchy until the cows
Squished it down for spring
My dog is still buried under the tree over there
Right where the garden would have been
The following year
I couldn’t bare to throw a handful of cherry tomatoes on top that dirt
Because I knew he would have been so disappointed
That I wasn’t eating them
We spent our evening
sharing a meal at Ramsey’s
fried catfish, soup beans,
fried green tomatoes and slaw.
We laughed so hard remembering
her childhood, stories of dropped
rocks, sister scaring, misbehaving.
We drove back to her apartment
to take a walk and discovered
a dead rabbit, in the middle
of the street in front of her place.
She couldn’t bear to look
and I couldn’t bear her sadness
so armed with a box, a bag and
some cardboard, I removed
the dismembered animal
from the pavement, thinking
back to my childhood when
I would watch my grandfather
clean rabbit for grandma to
cook in a huge pot, adding
homemade dumplings when
the meat was tender.
I told her this and recalled
how thoughtful a hunter my
grandfather was and how he
would have seen this as a
waste and disrespectful to
the animal.
We continued our walk and talked
of time past, present and shared.
KW
6/23/24
Hear the weekend
echo across the windshield,
tired mind.
Your spirit’s thriving now
Feel her touch like
nothing ever goes away.
Tired heart,
you’re healing now.
To taste love.
To feel home.
To find where one belongs.
You’re on your way, now.
–
It had to take some time and pain,
to understand why we’re this way.
But every bit of hatred that I’ve made
and every single failure to tarnish my name,
I forgave.
Shouldered weight,
the burdens of old days,
the scars that form a maze
across the universe of my skin.
The skin I let her in.
Because She wanted in.
She dances within my veins.
She is a light that will never fade.
I, drawn.
is it unnatural to have a lone tree
separate from the forest?
Is it unnatural for roots to
reject water?
Does “natural” mean easy?
fear and connection are both natural,
but fear is easier than bravery.
I’ll wrinkle up and die,
shriveling in emptiness.
Caterpillar dreams
the rain fell quickly this evening
just after you would’ve come to the porch
flowers danced as drops landed on petals
leaves of our Chinese maple hissed
it’s so big now, and I remember how
when we moved in you could see over it
to the side street across the way
now past the roof it blocks our view
so we pretend we’re in the country
instead of a subdivision on the outskirts
our neighbors wave in between the tree
and the gap still there for our walkway
it’s ideal really, not too closed in
certainly not open open enough that
everyone can glimpse our personal space
it affords us the time to bond between
that imaginary home place inside a door
and the unknown world outside beyond
screens we put up to separate them
it’s, in truth, a compromise
thats not as bad as it sounds
when the rain hisses and the lights go out
