things that keep you

she came to us a peach sapling,
waiting
to be planted.
and we gave her everything:
space
sun
air
faith.

she gave birth
in her second season.
hundreds of golden orbs
with felted heads,
easily bruised,
leaking honeyed nectar
when punctured.

and in the passing years
peaches crowded every limb
until they drooped
and shattered
beneath her curves.

when the cradles fell,
a syrupy river flowed,
and a village of skin and flesh
rose beside it.
a treat for chittering marauders—
slurping and sucking the juices.

at times,
i brushed them aside,
then dined on
the unsullied parts,
in spite of them.

after the fall
we would gather her dead into
pies and preserves.

year after year
we sharpened our knives,
thumped our chests,
and preened
in the shadow of her harvest.

until the year
her limbs bore only
withered pits.

in our withdrawal,
we questioned her purpose—
limbs still green
with leaf and life
yet barren where it
mattered.

we mourned her shriveled womb
with shaking heads
and shrugging shoulders.
then
practiced hands
sharpened
an axe.

The pixelated display blinks:
$4.75 for unleaded.
There is no God in this economy.

Dank, iridescent curb water swirls around my naked ankles.
The dripping nozzle clatters home with a defiant click.

I cast a sideways glance at the total through rain-fogged lenses,
but find salvation within the bowels of a crumpled Ziploc.

A relic—red, white, and laced within the Lord’s prayer.
Folded one too many times.

The messiah in his transparent tomb.
Sealed away with no stone to roll.

And no air to breathe.

our red and white rocking chair,
the one with the checkered cushions,
went to Goodwill today
at her behest.

in our living room,
it rocked our daughters.
in their bedroom,
it held their plushies.

that old chair—
wicker faded,
cushions stained with milk and juice.

handed down from her aunt
and uncle,
bought from an art student in the 60s.
one of a kind.

it felt wrong to get rid of it,
but I carried out the sentence
in our burgundy caravan.

I looked around after,
while my oldest dug for treasures,
hoping
it would find a home.

I turned to leave
and there it was on the floor,
beside an IKEA end table,
abandoned.
the sticker on its armrest
reading…

green, white, red
a scheme only a holiday would love.
green wreaths with red ribbons,
hanging from white doors
with intricate brass knobs gleaming
under the soft glow
of streetlamps,
in little cul-de-sacs
with virgin homes,
brick chimneys,
and juniper bushes.

white, red, green
the colors of flags.
in flight over twenty countries
patterned with packaged purpose—
striped, boxed, crossed.
whether limp or flapping
with violent implications,
rattling flagpoles.
feeling the power
of God’s breath.

red, green, white
colors that shouldn’t work
but do…kinda
on our bookshelf,
in our family room
red shelves,
green cabinet,
white baseboards,
holding books
filed half-hazardly
and tossed back into place
with rips and stains,
in mismatched dust jackets
packed high and tight
or loose where landed
green, white, red
a monolith
hand-me-down’d
not heirloom’d
painted in colors
that have no acquaintance,
but shout at each other
across crowded rooms.
too fragile to move
too wrong for the room
too full of our family.
we’ve thought about it
(once, maybe twice)
but never long enough
to mean it
too ugly to give away
too ours to let it go

there you lay,
a sea of charcoal black.
bleached from blizzard snow,
yellowing in the thaw.

you bloom where you fell
beneath the oaks,
accompanied by
mold and morels.

once full-bodied and tall-of-tine,
you’ve shed your suede jacket
for something lighter—
understated.
 
gone is your antlered crown,
cut cleanly from your cap.
unearned decorum
on a wall.

leg bones scattered,
where you crumpled
gouged and scraped
by canines.

your spine nearby.
a puzzle.
your pieces missing.

so.
many.
missing.

“how did you die,”
I wonder aloud.
not by arrow
or bullet.

“you were sick, weren’t you?”
food and water
feet away.

gorged yet hungry,
quenched but famished
porous.
dust.

you
would’ve preferred
my arrow.