I remember scuffing my feet for the sound of the leaves.
Like blue kindling, the black sticks can be arranged in vases
or light the studio fire.
I do see the moon over our bookshelves
and discover bird nests made of moss in my bowls.
Light can be bitter, but words help me see the darkness.
Photographing garden riches made visible in clay
glues time to my memories.
In the Dark We Crush
By Julia Cohen
Crab apples for the sound of it. Light cannot
be bitter. The backyard licks us.
Blue like kindling, the fox we caught with
a shoebox. Your shirt is a constellation
in the tent of recovery. If you release the hand
you relax the animal. Bookshelves hold up
the moon. I sweep your fur into a feeling.
I put you into my memories on purpose.
Moss smuggles stars into your cheeks.
Inside your body's future, bravery turns to pulp.
The flashlight pendulum. Your face sounds like that
record player. Electric & spinning.
Let's grow old together. Don't be scared
of Gertrude Stein. Be brave.