Teasel towers make slim shadow lines,
over wormwood weeds, waving bouquet seed heads amidst long grasses.
Poppies husky rattle,
spiders webbing silk,
first chills in the air,
curl and colour.
as life slows,
towards seasons turn.

I wrote poems once
About blackberry picking with my children.
They were lovely.
The children, too,
When they were sleeping.
I thought about those poems
When I was stomping teasel and milkweed
In the field behind the barn
With my big green muck boots
So that I could get to ripe berries.
Alone.
Hawk dueting
With the two little goats.
You have to wonder why
In such a moment
That you would work and sweat
For two measly quarts of free berries.
When I was younger
It was not unusual
To get proposals of marriage
For cobblers and cakes and dumplings
From old men who were already married.
Two quarts down.
Several to go.

Bald on top,
flipping a ‘50s
Duck’s *** in the back.
A T-shirt when you weren’t wearing one,
and that short, see-through house coat.
Old Gold on your breath,
those disgusting kisses
I wanted but feared.

You didn’t get upset when I accidentally hit your things.
You danced. You played euchre.
You’re my Victor.
You called me beautiful, no matter what.

Your happiest—
headphones on, making a mix tape,
gardening in the Fords at dusk,
Pabst Blue Ribbon with the boys,
figuring out why the birds
didn’t use your feeder.

You also said,
“If you’re in a guy’s room with your shirt off,
it’s too late to say no.”
Taking my consent
when I needed trust from you.
I still do.

Blue gas stovetop.
Camping.
A yellow “Turn Ahead” sign.
Teasel burrs clung to your leg
Life. Heck of a party
Written on your tombstone

You were fun.
You were broken.
You were both my protector
and the first one
who confused
love with fear.

As I trip on the floor,
watching you come
down the hall,
with your hand out.