tangerine fire

today --
today i saw your flowers stretching out in the dirt beside me, white and narrow and strong. with your knee digging in to my back and your hand pushing my face in to the ground, choking on mud and earth worms. your flowers grew before my eyes, stretching up and out like a pencil sketching a wall paper pattern, i thought i was watching vines climb a horizontal fence on fast-forward. but it was you. drowned in dirt that was both sweet and heavy, i couldn't gather the breath or the diction to tell you i saw your goodness manifested on the ground beside me, and it was so fucking beautiful.

yesterday --
yesterday i confused your persimmons with tangerines. i did it on purpose and i don't regret it, even now. one winter in a supermarket check-out line someone told me: the tangerine is the greatest gift of winter. so to your branches, empty besides those orange fruit who hung noble and intentional like ornaments and the shiny black crows who were endlessly perched adjacent to them, i applauded.

tomorrow --
tomorrow you will be free. at night the crow's wings will grow to cover the whole house, and all of me. it's shadow will be a thick blanket, i can feel it already. it's hard to breathe under water; it's hard to breathe under anything at all.