A pink dozen sunshine trapezoids— It's good to be breathing says an array of rosemary shrubs. A field of illicit rocks, shrapnel, bees, germs unknown. Hands held. Back seats checked for sleeping. I have made a Tuesday monument of a baby's toothbrush lying on the sidewalk alone. The far lake no one knows about, bitching its ripples. In this case it doesn't matter what other people need in measures of solitude; You need a few years, a few more years alone. And it's such a popular slur to hurl: You will always be alone. I've been told that— (Eight years ago.) (And knowing slowly as I go how to hold a garden here.)
Copyright © 2012 by Cynthia Arrieu-King. Used with permission of the author.