All this to say we won’t be there for any of it –
dear jake, i want to see a cactus in the wild
to thrust a spile into leathery flesh + suck juice amidst its spines.
this is what sunset could look like. don’t you agree?
god how we paint our beer, + good god how we hide
arugula in our unmentionables! our understanding of forever
seems to perpetuate an end. so i’ll burn candles in order to eliminate
the things we don’t say. + what i know of incense is not much
but smoke comes from many places we often ignore – + if
i could pray, i would pray:
today you have taken. all our sunsets
are stained red. i
planting candlelight with him
in mind. (please
for secrets.) universe, i don’t want to miss
him anymore. tell me
how he fell apart?
jake, imagine red to rind. imagine the troth that grows
from arugula. imagine the last time the sun
sets. we are forever in the garden, imagine it goes
by many names. & if you stop, it hurts too much. think
about the crocuses that bloom in snow – every year
they die, they come alive. i am melting not
into you, but away. each day a little more
of us evaporates. does it feel nice? i’m never sure – not even
when you’re gone. jake, you’re out fishing
for the summer. i know you’ll come back,
even though you never do. not really, not to me
anyway, not a crocus, not a sunrise.
Kat Finch is a writer from the pacific northwest. She has work out or forthcoming in Sonora Review, Whiskey Island, & Sugar House Review, among others. Her first chapbook, Birds With Teeth, was published by alice blue press.