a backyard elegy
i am warmed by the sun
and the lilac bush.
heat-cloaked and shining,
lungs full of fragrant air,
i bathe in the hazy green
of the maple trees.
it reminds me of summers
in the Pocono mountains -
of the albino skunk that
lived under the porch,
and the backfield
of white clover
humming with bumblebees.
once, when my parents were sleeping,
i carved my initials
into the wooden staircase.
in the turbid water
of the Delaware,
i wore the sediment as a shroud.
river rocks and silken algae -
tendrils of muddy brown hair,
suspended.
i clawed at my neck until
i found gills,
and willed my legs
into a mermaid’s tail.
but when i turned eighteen
i condemned my reveries and
left my childhood,
freckled and spirited,
on a shelf
in the Shawnee General Store.
[mom, it hurts to breathe.]
blinking away the acrid salience
of verdant memory,
i choke on the
smell of lilacs and
burn my eyes
on scorched-earth.