Behind the House

I planted marigolds
to soften and color the perimeter
of our shed. As they fade
to peach and die I lay my heart down
written in stone and weathered
by the unrelenting seasons.

My love lay like webs
curled and half buried
with empty husks where baby spiders
emerge, primitive and hungry
and the words can not be read anymore but it doesn’t matter
as the branding never fades.

It never fades. I kiss the sweat off your shoulders
as they shudder and I taste the salt
of dusty boat launches, of hours alone
with books and pens and paper,
of televisions blaring the same movies and dreams.

You sing the low down you done
cheated me blues and chased a million

stinging bees into the mists
fast as an electric hummingbird sucking
liquid meth out of a feeder covered in
DARE stickers hanging off a tree
out behind the house.

Your fists rock

and you drum
the beats of the margins and lines
and in your rhythmic
staccato blasts out behind the shed
you sing to the only angel you'll ever know.

c. Melissa K. Furbush, 2008