At breakfast my man sticks a purple
magnolia bud in my soft boiled egg.
The flower opens, distilling to lilac.

Sometimes I’m surprised there’s light
in dark places, those corridors, those alleys
where you wouldn’t stray if you didn’t need

Trends of lead, silver, copper, and zinc
vein the middle of Missouri . . .

. . . something, cold
wet and bitter, saline
sided by yellow sand . . .

and I said,
“I understand,”
and I did, ishly . . .

Thirsty Shadow
 
the kind of being
that won’t post
an image

Street after street, ears bright to bass and tune
of two thudding feet, gradients of breathing. But rain

is brooding. Sparse headlights, ambient drone
of cars kissing tarmac, merging

Working the land on good days, after Easter,
people would hear the breaks occur at school,
children calling as they ran into the playground,
familiar skipping rhymes rising from the babble.

Some days, the privilege of living isn’t enough.
The weight of the kettle is unbearable. You leave the teabag
forlorn in the mug, unpoured.