25: l.t.

25: l.t., 2012

the backyard was always perfect
parallel lines, pansies in the center, surrounded
by the grey edges of the world, curling in, rusted dog kennels long without occupants, easter spring and the 4th tinged by threats
of a storm.
the bathtub was green and the soap was irish spring,
i wondered if i was tracing steps that i should have known,
or if i was just a player in someone else’s game.
down the street, the st. peter’s church van lay at rest and your neighbor
millie, would move out in bits and pieces,
leaving me with a miniature, functional lottery machine
and you, false flowers
all lemons.
in my dreams i can walk through the house and know the smells, the scents,
but i can’t place the people,
what they’re doing, where they are
frozen in face from the last time i saw them;
frozen as stiff as the fire she lit in the dark basement of the bowling alley,
trauma served cold by twilight,
christmas eve.


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