I’ve Been Collecting This to Tell You

Vernal

12 v e R n A l The sore spot in my upper-left-quadrant is where you rest your weight, is my missing rib. The empty place supports you. The neighborhood trees in heat, from down the block, look like a blight of ice, white blossoms headily calling up decay. The branches, center trimmed out for power lines, grow out to the sides, butterfliedbreast -of-chicken. A gas stain in the parking lot blooms into the shape of lungs. Magnolia flowers rust underfoot, orange, and the pear tree throws off all its petals in the wind. blossoming lasts for only so long, and then it’s on to full green, our hands together making a new organ (here is the church, here is the steeple). ...