Garnering Loss
Your boyfriend’s dead he says
I laugh
ask which one
but think of James Garner
my own Murphy’s Romance
staying for supper only if breakfast is included.
How do you like your eggs?
A sign maybe.
The amaryllis stops swallowing.
The cilantro dries up.
I hear people went to the wrong Roanake this weekend.
I remember stooping under a sumac
on a trail near Toledo,
turning red under its leaves
while the guide explained
fragrant bobs attract bees
stems transform into pipes
fluoresce under ultraviolet light.
I fear
my toes will grow numb
harden and fall off,
useless and without scent.
I fear
I’ll say, “I’m 60,”
just like Murphy
and the door will slam
leaving me outside
in the coming dark.
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