for my wife
by Ronald Dzerigian
Backyards filled with pallets, piles
of dry timber, pools unswimmed and dusty,
trailers parked in clusters of downy weeds.
All of this is reflected in the freckle on the white
of your eye. Our fingers trace each other’s fingers
as we watch mockingbirds swoop after hawks.
We make our bed from eight hay bails
so that we may sleep in vineyards stinking
of raisins. We, each, collect our many beads
of sweat and drink, smiling, by the river.