my brain already
feels totally fried. what’s one
more piece of bad news?
Courage has the hunter run with purpose;
Hunger has the forager search the surface.
A timeless marriage, the hunter & forager—
Acts of service, and a collector of character.
Their bronze hearts and metallic stones hold
The weight of history, love, & the unknown.
the grief hasn’t hit yet
it lingers in the emptiness
like taffy stuck between my teeth
fading into recent—yet distant memory
laughter that flooded the halls i called
home for an instant, a lifetime
diminished to fun facts
and cheugy gold keychains
My green thumb is borrowed—
Spray ’em down every day, in the
morning, before it gets too hot.
Don’t wanna shock ’em to death—
First casualty? Well, maybe.
Over-watered, under-watered,
what’s the difference?
Hard soil, yellow leaves, dripping
dripping, wilting. Wilted, passed out
in the hanging air. Christ, it feels like
a convection oven out there.
Breathe in, breathe out,
pant, pant, pant.
Dead, waxy leaves. Dead?
How long ’til I have to call it?
Hanger, in the sun,
pink flowers and waxy red leaves.
Dead, for all I know.
when do I call it in? Check for a pulse
tomorrow?
rain spills like a heavy hand of spices,
drenching darkened buildings in sheets
of soupy relief. down here the leaves
and the ground and the trees have no
choice but to drink it all up, swallow it
whole like a fly caught in a carnivorous trap.
there’s no such thing as overwatering
in summer, for even the well-watered tomato
sapling i inherited still looks peaked—
crooked leaves dangle as he arches
his herbaceous back towards eventide’s sun.
doesn’t he know acting needy won’t
bring him any more rain than the rest of us?
