The
end of love
There are dark nights in the town
that
run out of exits, running out of patience,
especially
with nothing on the shelves
but
books, when we couldn’t grow
anything
but cold. Something grows tired
on
vines and low trees and it always
looks
like bruises, wondering if I’m
still
good. You and I had a few
choice
words, a few delectable moments,
what
I did my rain dance to, “Good Life” by
Inner
City, and really stomping out grapes,
really
loosening the soil. I wasn’t made
for
gardens. I wasn’t made to wash my breasts
like
tomatoes. There is the good dirt that
came
from blood and knew my name was
in
a bucket like an abundance of words would
feed
someone all season. Where were you?
I
danced until the time ran out and we saw
the
body cutting itself on the teeth of wild
nights.
There in the dark, you were those
seeds
we fed the birds from shadows that
ruined
what we grew, the birds taking off
like
last minute dreams, you were keeping
something
alive around me.
s.grutz
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