Watertown
1
This summer
the tree is growing
into our house,
its branches are
pushing through the roof
like hungry seedlings
through moist spring dirt.
Our porch is canopied,
our view enveloped,
a wavering green sky
and the occasional
surefooted maneuvering
of a squirrel.
2
The air is hot
and thick, feels
like boiled molasses.
We stretch naked
before the window
air conditioner;
it is too hot
to even touch each other.
We sit in our underwear
in the shade of the porch,
where the air is denser
than smoke,
watching the neighbor’s dog
roll in the freshly watered grass,
come up shiny and slick
as your hair
after I have washed it.
3
It takes three hours
to meet you.
The name of the town
clatters in our mouths
like empty silverware.
We eat lunch
in the graveyard:
cool orbs of hard-boiled eggs,
sandwiches soft with fingerprints,
dried figs that leave our mouths
sticky with seeds.
We sweep the autumn shade
from the plots;
we imagine loneliness.
4
From the porch
in winter
I can see the two washing machines
decaying in our backyard.
Our tree is bare,
its branches cut the sky,
the frosted poles shimmer
and shake when snow-
birds leap into flight.
A cup of coffee
steams on the railing,
water drips steadily
into icicles.
This is not our home,
not this deep crunching snow,
not your imminent departure –
the frostbite settling in my belly
tastes of bitter petals,
icy dry as chalk;
Two strangers meet
on a slippery sidewalk,
they catch each other
and stay that way,
bent inward,
holding hands.
(reprinted with thanks from Eleventh Muse, 2008/2009)
