“Gardening”
Night keeps coming back to the dream
where your teeth fall out, the soft smooth nubs mashing together
as the spit dribbles down your cheek. Something is shifting
just beyond the trees and you can only bite back with empty gums.
Next time, when you are lucid,
you must hold your hands over your mouth. To break the cycle,
bury the teeth in the garden. Make a grave marker of paper and string.
Cultivate what is missing until the parts grow whole again.
One day a molar will sprout, its green stalk rooted to the white enamel. You must pull the living
teeth from the soil; when you do, the roots will bleed terribly. When you put them in your mouth,
arrange them in a lavish bouquet. They will gleam. You will never dream of the garden again.
“in the moments before the end of the world”
children play soccer in the park. yellow flowers
fight for real estate between sidewalk cracks
and we walk again counting our luck,
feeling quiet like the decaying leaves.
we fought last night
about patterns but have settled into truce
we are feeling optimistic about winning
at war, about the lift of the plague and the breathing of the grass. you talk
about your grandfather, how he always supported you,
how last year he dragged his oxygen tank
to your lecture where we watched you speak on sex
in ancient greece and the vulgar graffiti of pompeii.
I am looking off towards a blue mural, the outline of a bird
half-drawn, and I raise one foot to step off the grass and onto the sidewalk—