FIREFLY
He comes to me already lit
not bright exactly—
a patience of glow.
In the yard, dusk enveloping,
he flickers
as if he were teaching the night
how to look.
I think this is for me.
I step closer.
He replies—appears,
disappears,
returns altered—
alive enough to blemish the air and
forgetful enough to forgive it.
I cup his light. It goes out.
I stand still.
The light stays.
SUMMER SCHOOL
Potatoes come up easy
Stick ’em in there leave ’em alone
Sprouting when you forgot about em
Leafier and greener
Leaves waxy and strong
For squash and melons
Throw squash peels and melon peels
Into a pile with all your other peels
Keep throwing other peels on
Til it’s squash plants, melon plants
When you’re weeding,
make sure you’re weeding.
The old linden has a way
of reaching middle age
and will need replacing.
Don’t be afraid to move
that yucca somewhere sunnier
when you see it drooping.
After all it’s a desert plant
and the yucca can’t walk.
If you grow thirsty yourself,
point your mouth at the mouth
of the green rubber hose.
Taste the red rubber taste
and for a moment be green too.
But if you go hungry
you will have no choice
but to invent timetravel
and plant a few months ago.
Or, make friends with a neighbor.
TIME SERVED
I guess this is how it ends:
with me intent on living
and you hell bent on remembering it.
That album plays on repeat but
I hardly notice because
I’m busy painting my walls.
Maybe you’re crying
in the house you keep
hanging pictures in.
Maybe at your mom’s in Knoxville
sifting through choices
to make the same ones again.
I’m here with that album
playing on repeat while
we refinish the door.
I found somebody
who holds a paintbrush
between her teeth all day.
She wants to put together
something that never was.
Skookum Atlas 