I look for the seeds that I
threw in handfuls
at the base of the thorns
and weeds that haven't
been yet pulled out. They gleam
hard shells. Ellipses of
the forthcoming.

They sit exposed atop
stone hard soil
with hefty leaves as
protective suffocation
and tough shelled insects for company.
I only planted them earlier today.
The beady pupils stare, not
yet grown to blink.

Why do you not grow?
Do you need watered?
More shade?
A safer place to rest?
Why do you not grow?

The thorns are deep red and
mossy with dark fertile green
as thick as my bone
thin wrists.

They grow descending
in droops, heavy
taunting black pearls.
Definitely June. Nearly July.

I don't have the heart
to tell myself
that this is not real.

Brain safe inside it's
skull.
Heart secure behind it's
ribs.
The sleeping parts of myself.
I owe you so much.

Haven't you heard?
Starting tomorrow everything is going to be just fine.
They just announced it
blaring over the speakers
the radio
the telly.
A languid female voice - the jagged automaton - rang out
loud and clear
eliminating chance for error.

Did you hear?
The computer says we
don't have to worry anymore.

Did you hear?
Did you hear? The robot
thinks our worry
is all very silly.

I still think about
those two ten year olds
in the kitchen
baking scones, in the
flour-clouded haze of that early
spring. Tucking in matching lanyards
for our secret club.

I still think about
sitting in your boyish room
and brushing blue chalk
through wavy blond, while
you showed me your favourite
football cards. You'd exhale as a laugh,
a defiant filly's huff.
Lavender oil rubbed onto our
narrow wrists beneath the
orange bands.

I still think about our
sweet innocence. The laughter
we made to deny our
growing up.

I still think about you
when we pass by each other.
Sometimes I smile. Often
I don't. An indifferent glance.
People don't believe me now
when I say we were ever
close as we were. A phantom
lavender scent lingers
at our confluence.