“I grow flowers in my garden. What do you grow?”

“Thorns of spite.”

“How do you grow them?”

“With all my might.”

“So the swans do not swim here?”

“No more. They nest

And then flee.”

“I have not been to the estuary

This year. What goes there?”

‘The fiddler swallows air and lays

Along the meniscus of the

Swollen sea and seems

To sing of the dusk and

The ocean’s skin.”

“What do we learn?”

“Nothing. Unless you have gills.”

“I have wings.”

“Then sing.”

 

​

​

​

​

Then Sing published in Foliate Oak Literary Journal, March 2013