I trace the image of my father’s tear
On the smoothed oak,
And watch
The wild grass, rising.
Our hands, lying beside.

The plum tree sways, languidly,
And for the first time,
I feel
The heaviness
Of nectar.

We listen to the bullfrogs croon
Their washing-board blues,
Until the porch swing begins to creak
Under the weight of our silence.

Your lips divide

Me from the time
I sat watching
My bedroom mirror,
Holding onto butterflies.

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