A Harvest

I bet your yard is dank with rain this week.

The ground here is dry; it comes up in gusts

and suckles at my skin for sweat. Peter farms

his yard, determined. I watch him, determined

not to think of you. And not to tell him nothing

much will grow. He knows. Antiseptic scent of hot

cilantro. Whine of water from the hose. I missed you

yesterday. Today, it’s just dust against me. He looks

pathetic in his porous flower beds, his little thrill

of water disappearing. Once, I wanted you to change.

Now, each of us is wanting. None of us knows what for.

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