The sky, purpling around me
at dusk. Spanish moss screening the oaks
as if ghosts had disrobed
while we slept. Stillness from the dead
grasses. A break from heat as Florida lies
on her back, a wet rag over her mouth. Water,
clean enough to drink. An end
to this thirst. Days of rain. Days
that know my skin, young
enough not to thin. Days that know
my child as both buzzard & bird. Days
that know each bone she has broken
in me. How she listened & never listened. For her
to give & receive this earth, crumbling
with the weight of the trees. To know how she might still
hurt. What I want of this world is a child
who still lives. Like the oak that breaks
the sidewalk in the front yard
with its roots now. How it reaches for purple
sky & doesn’t move away.
