A. V. ChristieDecember 10, 2012 - 10:40am0 comments
In all modesty you moved the painted fern nearer. You trusted the work, trusted the nature of the desire. It wasn’t ego. Afternoons were haze and walking back and forth. Perhaps the veronica had been precious, foolish so that the yard mocked, the back corner quickly took itself back. There’d be no keeping up. You were, you learned, a minute note, as with conviction—with jewelweed and with sumac—the yard proved in every membrane its vast thesis.
Warm, limp disappointment one then another we lay at each other’s feet
The house stands erect. Our slick livers grow back in order to be pecked out.
My devoted hen preens. I give her a worm— she gives me an egg, a cake.