2003

I left the frying pan of Texas and one-twenty in the shade
for Ontario’s red and orange autumnal blaze
then to toes, cold in ends of boots,
clenched hands in empty pockets.

A sad child and I sat in silence at bus stops,
or at a table I didn’t choose, and wouldn’t buy
even if I had the means.

It was a mean time.

Winter passed and I burned like noon white sun
over the loss of artemesia, morning glory, thyme,
cilantro, nasturtiums -
things I feared I’d never have
another plot of earth to plant in.

I dreamed, too, of the bachelor’s buttons
you let die and go to seed, refused to dead head,
held your ground when asked.

I woke up seething
over the way you pretended not to notice,
the way they blocked out the sun,
towered over my herbs,
waving, bloomless, in the breeze

I left you for this.