Katherine Faigen


We took back roads on bikes
nosing the deep shade scents
like dogs (laundry, hot grass).

We flew past the dead-land’s
beaver dams, skeleton trees,
and thickets of loosestrife,

and rested by our favorite yellow barn.
Near its fence, hydrangeas
hung in clusters of pale blue stars.

I was full of summer, and love
had been pushing against my lips
all day. I told you I love hydrangeas!

You bought me some, later, put them
in a glass vase on our kitchen table.
They began to fade

and reminded me of the silk ones
in my mother’s guestroom
where I hid when I was miserable.

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