In the Almost Summer of a Humid Evening
Noticing the absence of a lilac breeze
we spread our bellies over cool earth
mourn the dandelions’ death
their white ash clings against the barn
your duck takes lazy drags of slender weed
like a woman’s cigarette.
Onto our backs
I weave you a necklace of clover
while you tell me stories
while you reminisce your short life
of summers past
as if I wouldn’t remember, as if I weren’t there
as if I gave you away at birth.