Sara Moore Wagner
When we try to open the gate, it sticks
like a rib inside a carcass. You pull it
with your free hand, the other is holding
the wild lily you picked me, and I dropped
when I thought you wouldn't know. The gate
sticks and you pull it with your shoulders
and your back even though I say don't
pull with your back, and you say goddammit,
Sara. God damn it. Look at the hollowed tree,
the one you want me to climb
even though I told you I couldn't ever
do it. Look at that lily.
The least you could do is help me. At least.
You couldn't make me want
the open gate and sky or branches,
your free hand. The other one.
When I was a girl, I made chains out of dandelions.
You'll know why I pick one and crush it into
the soft of your cheek, to mark it. Mark it.
You want me to be still because a single
cow is passing in front of that tired oak.
You think everything is something,
but it's not.