Grace
You won’t
kill me
because I
will not
oblige you
by dying.
I hold all
my hands
under
the cherry
trees.
Clusters of
shyest
pinks
joining
hands.
Laced
like this,
diadem
like this,
we live the
past/
present/
future/
all at once
and even now.
Wouldn’t we tear
seas,
cities,
money
to get to
each other?
The public
garden—
the books
of its leaves,
the leaves
of its books—
denotes privilege,
entitlement
gorgeous belief
that we’ll meet
again and
again
holding
this
feelingtone
of
flowers
Source: Poetry (July/August 2019)