by Zoiey Mull
Breast-fed baby on a stone like a fairy,
I’m home in the honeysuckle climbing up the terrace.
Sweet warm wind, tiny sulfuric apples,
closing my eyes to take in the gospel.
The tree grew taller. We’re short as Mary.
Cut is her pine and the truck neighbor’s maple.
The rock looks eroded, no flowers or fungi—
gifts they used to bring. I’d see them in the sky.
I walked myself home and was locked out on the porch,
marker on my body, standing at the door.
To my right, that terrace, the one I formerly climbed,
smelled empty, was barren, no flowers, no vines.