Poetry | May 16, 2022



In the fall, the garden  

folds in on itself—grand 

stalk of kale on the ground  

like a wilted chandelier, 

still green tomatoes  

that missed their chance  

at red and tomatillo lanterns 

scattered in the turned-up 

soil. I can smell the earth  

rolling over in her bedclothes. 

I can see a crowd of brown flies  

dancing vertically  

in the four o’clock light.  

I find myself courting loss  

as a counterweight  

to the raucous good  

fortune of being alive  

and in possession  

of the ones that I love.  

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