Michael Boehnker, Untitled, 2017 (Artist Website)
Giclee print, 4 x 6”
The mustard fields are flowering,
yellowing the hills, my heart breaking
open with the blooms. It happens every year
and still I think of you. Puttering around
the house, scattering salt as if our demons
had bodies. I was happy then, singing under
my breath to the heat of your cheek, a flushed
amaryllis, your hand palming mine
in the dark. But our demons weren’t corporeal.
There was nothing to grab hold of, nothing
some superstition could ever keep at bay.
This morning I woke to rain, went out
into the yard, watching water pool into
the calla lilies cupped open like hands,
some made too heavy for their stems, flowers
dripping and turned down toward the soil.
Lately I feel heavy too, like my legs might not
hold, my knees hitting the earth
like shovels. And I think back to another life:
arms interlaced in the sun, hands woven into
hair, the taste of your breath, an anointing.
And I want to know if it will always be
this standing and falling, or if these roots will find
hold, to stay fast through the seasons.