cherry, mahogany
any tree you want, I promise
to grow in the cloud-shaded
garden of our shared yard.
you say the past is a rainstorm.
the puddles are running. in
potholes, small ducks stir
up ripples. your coat
slung over my arm.
linden, birch
whatever you want. just
name it, and I will sow it.
we huddled and watched
as the drops whispered down,
only I was a phantom. I could
not have been there. it is all
I can do now, seeds in my pockets,
seeds overflowing in my hands.
elm, fir
I will pat them in the soil.
water them with cupped palms.
catch what falls
from the bright sky.
guard this land like a sentry,
safekeep what blooms.
if, in fact, this doesn’t let up for years,
no matter. to gaze is a small thing.
maple, ash
in the café, I dug my nails into
my flesh to keep from reaching
for you. had to bite my inner
lip to keep the words
from gushing out. when I open
my grip, the skin is marked:
little half-moons everywhere.
train cars on a starved track.
cypress, oak
or, not cars, but basins, vessels
you could write your name in.
call yourself vertigo, spinning sense
as you laugh at the top of a tree.
wind in your hair, all billowing,
a gale snatching our voices.
I am here now, no phantom. body raked
like the earth where we bury our hearts.
