142: Summer Magnolias (latest revision)
To Emily and Jarod Whiting
The heavy summer air wraps
itself around me like a shroud
as I walk between the lines of
parked cars and magnolia trees,
the asphalt still burning my feet
so long after the sun has fallen--
this pain still not fading, even
so long after they've gone away.
The blades of yellowed, brittle
grass that cluster around the trees'
cement-bordered roots prick my
feet as I step across, stopping
between two parked cars, where
the fallen leaves and petals soothe
and cling to my feet--but their
coolness cannot ease this restless
longing I feel once they've gone away.
I look into the dusty eyes of these
hulking beasts slumbering beneath
their canopy of branches shivering
protectively over their metal wards--
but none of these chipped, faded hoods
belongs to the one I'm longing for:
his car, which has driven them away.
Wrapping my arms around myself,
I lean my head back to stare at
the magnolia trees above me--
their closed blooms nestled like
stars among the glossy leaves--
and think of how it alarmed me
to see you chewing on one of
their petals, for I thought that,
had this been Southern California,
it could easily have been a white
oleander blossom, as poisonous
to you as your absence is to me,
or as suffocating as this heavy
scent enclosing me...as toxic as
this breath-stealing summer air.