my dog stops to mark
each abandoned Christmas tree
that has found its grave
on the sidewalk of Keswick Road

Tonight I am walking in boots with laces
instead of a Velcro post-surgery shoe
Each step echoes an ache
that cannot ever fully heal

Half of the porches in Baltimore
are adorned with holiday lights
others with pumpkins, forgotten

The fruit bowl in my kitchen still holds
fruit given months ago by a sympathetic neighbor
Some spots on the apples from Ari
are finally becoming
soft and brown – I eat around the rot

My torso and arms are strewn
with black and blue kisses,
the result of weeks on crutches
My bruised ribs confess:
the real hurt was under here

Tonight I am walking
with a swollen foot, a swollen heart
but no longer broken

Three years ago
I was given
my first cactus plant
I named her Esperanza

Today I threw her away
in the kitchen trashcan –
the things we love don’t always get a funeral
when they rot
when we overwater, over love
          accidentally

I keep her red ***
on the windowsill
          empty
the garbage and walk it to the street
thinking of her green thorny throat
turning yellow and soft
when I still thought
exposure to the sun would heal her

Through a window I see
a dim living room, brown couch, teal walls
I imagine it is our couch
we must be doing dishes
after dinner – your hands
on my waist, I always forget
to take my rings off
until I have already started
scrubbing the plates

I take away your hands
leave on the rings
let the plates air dry

Let Esperanza grow
black spots and mold
and worry only about
the next plant
her red *** will hold

It is Thursday
when you go to the store
declaring your identity in the world again
You have always been hungry
now your stomach is too

The store is flooded
with white light, except the produce section
which has dim yellow lights
wood floors and black tables
where you squeeze each pear

              Remember that Sunday
               your bed was an island
               you thought about
               calling out from work,
               thought about the boy
               next to you, still holding
               your hand while he was sleeping

The green pears
only come in organic
cost a little more and
probably taste the same as

               Two weeks later he picks you up
                 to wander around that big apple like worms
                drinking coffee and talking about
                how useless is the penny
                how you both never need change

The brown pears
that are much cheaper
because they aren’t as bright
but they must be just as juicy as

               Drinking ***** infused with mint and cherry
                 in the theatre parking lot – you
                complain about missing the previews
                 laugh about how you would have
                 kissed through them anyway

Canned pears
that never rot
floating in their tin coffin
with their skin already peeled

               You take down every photo
                 t-shirt, sticker, love-letter
                 but not the driftwood
                 he found and gave to you
                during that first walk together

You don’t pick the green, brown, or
canned – deciding you want
any other fruit

We are talking about poetry

He is restricted to a black stroller
counting cheetos with
cheese-dust coated fingers
humming numbers, while
his papa leans on
his own crossed arms
eyes closing for too long
to be considered blinking

Seven cheetos

Let’s return to the poem
on page 238 in the book

now six cheetos
and five and his father
starts snoring

I love the idea
of rainy days

When it rained last year
and last Tuesday
and then again today
I wore the same rain boots
each time

I love the idea
of being in love
with that one last year
and then you today
I love with my shameful heart
each time – feeling just the same

A different day whenever it rains
in love, a different name

For best happiness:
wine and the passenger seat
mid-May
together

For best loving:
wine and a sunroom
mid August
together

For best heartbreak:
wine and a sidewalk
right now
alone

There she is
kneeling in the only temple
she believes worthy of her prayers -
with snakeroot as white
as her hands, pulling at the Earth
to make space for fall -
where it matters most
where everything matters most
to her, in the garden