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Five Points Vol. 23, No. 1

Spring

All that remained, I have buried, awaiting
an orchard. I have already fashioned

the ladder and boiled the jelly jars.
When limbs lean heavy, my ankles

will trace the quincunx; with spidered hands
I will lift leaves and enfold my harvest as

in silk. Your kerchief will have birthed soft stone
fruits; your nickel, branchfuls of silver berries.

Each I will bathe and embalm in warm sugar
until they release the colours they remember.

But now there is only land, the way it swells
around your seeded relics, their still musk

and their urge to rise. I have spread them
crosswise like a quilt, or a domino’s eyes.

Had you known, you might have polished
these dregs to sequins, spooled them

in rose-stippled paper. You might have left
diamonds in corners where my broom

would find them. The trees of your dust
drowse in a new womb, and here I am,

holding breath in a watering can.