Poetry

The gum she bought by the flat. Blue or green,
mixed in her mouth with the brown chaw we found
in its pouch in the drawer, it congealed—

My father says I don’t know how you can live
where you can’t see the stars, and I tell him
they’re as far away from you as they are
from me, which is true. But he’s calling me

My wife secretly took
a bunch of cuttings this fall
while I stood watch: two leaves

Your name, a fold creased
into my tongue—what followed,
naturally, I love you.

The bean is the perfect lesson, capsule of seed coat
enshrouding cotyledon, the embryonic epicotyl leaves,
the radicle ready for reaching.

Asphalt, bituminous, concrete, cement—
the whole place is case-hardened, carapaced.
The air shimmers with heat; tree roots can’t breathe. . .