ashes, ashes

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ashes, ashes

“you know, I just don't get your poetry.” -d.r.

why would you

build a garden out of patterns of light

rugged burned branches

fifteen kilos of testosterone

one pile of waterproof matches

the symbol passed in the form of a ring.

a miscarriage. a chicken coop.

i dropped the vegetables, you

burned the water. the irritation

was turned up high, flooding.

there's nothing poetic about

broken lust,

even six years worth.

like an underweight rooster overfed

with breakfast and sunrise,

the years passed in and out of that

puffed up chest. yours was a treasure

trunk with few jewels, many tools

for tweaking and screwing, the doodle-do.

the hen house was booby-trapped,

a coyote or snake, not sure. perched,

per usual, keeping the food warm, then

i pecked. everywhere,

tomato hornworms as big as my

claw. but the garden

-we mean the farm-

simmered in shades of heavy heat.

meaning meant meanness, green grew

brown, and we all

fell down. we all

fell

down.

6.28.12