JENNIFER SCHOMBURG KANKE
I am sorry, but I am a pea
planted too far out from the trellis.
Do not reach for me,
all I have are these roots
and they cannot hold us both.
If you spread an arm out to me,
wrap it around my stalks and leaves,
then we will pull each other to the ground.
Is this image wrong?
I do not want it to be right.
I want to say, “lean on, reach out, hold tight.”
I want to say that while June is moving
continually on toward July’s heat
that I have grown long enough to touch wood.
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There is something in this leaf mould
makes me say "I am half-sick of shadows"
when in a month I know
I will be full-sick for sure.
When winter comes I will miss it,
miss that crunch of cellulose
sucked dry of all its summer fire
gone now to rest in its roots,
miss that smell of wet children
and sheep dogs with matted fur
who, contrary to advertisements, do not wear
yellow rain coats and galoshes,
are not followed by admiring ducks
but do sleep on latched rugs by warm fires.
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