memory erupting from bone:
i cried the day i realized
i loved you. my spine
folded, knobs protruding
like the knuckles of a fist, skin brittled
into eggshell. outside, flies swept
in waves through the garden—dark,
jeweled masses. the telephone wires
cleaving blue. fault lines
in porcelain. i saved the tomatoes,
placed them in my last clean bowl.
always, there is so much
i do not want. but still, the sweep of daylight.
still, the juice of summer’s harvest
crowning my lips.