summer comes. finally
the roses like winked eyes
and the thorns,
on the ground
i am tired of you, father.
you didn’t rear me, you
have no say
in what i
become
yet still
somehow, it is time
of july & the martyrs
run the avenue
wanting me to be
watching
for your
son
how close
we always come
to this, your
truth. this
is not your home
never has been
who takes no shelter
in the innocence and
triumph of
kids who
would rather walk
the yard
then come
in, the kitchen near
and cool, the fan
always drowsing
and food, ready
to be ate
herbs & bouquets
aplenty. there are
no scraps here
not even an
empty plate
