NIGHTFALL

The best is when I kick open the side-door and meet 

a mist woven like a Berber carpet hiding a pool of mud 

I discover too late, slipping, and the bucket of peels

from last night’s dinner kicked over by the wild rabbit 

with ears longer than my fingers or the groundhog,

knowing I’m about as smooth as a # 60 grit sandpaper. 

The only one awake, I see in the sudden rain we needed 

and didn’t expect, the almond tree come closer, deep alabaster 

blooms filling like cups, fog stirring branches, and my body

under the trees, rubbing against stones, our home suddenly dark 

inside, lit by slanted outside beams, while I keep an eye 

on our fences, I wish I could put my hand in the birdbath 

filled with leaves, mustard smell of stagnant water, wanting 

to stretch my body among waves eloquent, free of these spaces. 

PUBLISHED IN TWELVE MILE REVIEW, VOL. 4, NO. 1, 2024.