after Phoebe Pineda’s Chimera (Spectrum vol. 65)
I don’t remember a lot of things
but I do the bees’ wings against my flesh
arms, cheeks, fingertips
I do the rumble of the greyscale sky
the blue, the rattle of departure
I do the lashing of rain in the palm fronds
the aching arch of the tree trunk in the wind
The brittle blue plastic of milk crates as stepping stones
a Degas umbrella; warm pita full of goat’s cheese; the huddling of children in a musty room
a tube tv to entertain them.
I do recall the blackberries, the overflowing
creeks, the water between my toes, the
roaring of the falls, the baking
rocks, painful to touch
the birdcalls I never learnt to name, the
sunrise on the blacktop. I do.
I do the frost on emerald blades of grass,
I do the wind that rustled the leaves,
I do the brush of butterflies, and the bees
in the lavender hedges.