Lindsay Wilson

(untitled)

there is a field of sage

we looked over at sunset

on a trail just outside

happy jack road

eating cheap chinese take out

with balsa wood chopsticks

watching the moon rise

i ask for nothing

but this image

of us

sitting on uneven rocks

watching the sun surrender

and you bring up

christmas in august

chinese lanterns

on your childhood christmas tree

you bring up the bones

of cattle

from this red clay soil

you bring up a father

with slick hands

and a mother

who wields

the comfort of

shame and guilt

like an old coat

i feel more weight to this moment than i can carry

it tastes like cold moo shoo pork

you put your hair up

with chopsticks

and pull up your skirt

the length of my smile

and ask me to bury

all the bones

you bring up

(untitled)

even before the end

we knew

we were not swans

maybe

bastard pigeons

in mud shacks

or rilke's flowers

that only love

for a season

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