by Scarlett Peterson

Of all of my dead you’re the one
I don’t worry about, know you
might have cracked a joke while I cried
and told you about my woman,
still would have taken me out
to pick the last huckleberry (I planted seeds
for my own. I am trying to be patient).
Just the other day I saw a green anole out
on my fence and said James, thought
of the lizards that hung from your finger,
your way of helping me learn to love
even what aches in its latching—

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Scarlett Peterson is a poet, essayist, and lesbian. Her first collection, The Pink I Must Have Worn, was recently published by Kelsay Books. She is a PhD candidate at Georgia State University. Her work can be found in Moon City Review, The Lavender Review, Cosmonauts Avenue, Gargoyle Magazine, Counterclock Journal, The Shore, Poetry Online, Eunoia Review, and more.