i stood under a gazebo, entangled
with kudzu in a placid little
cornfield. your footprints shifted beside mine,
fingerprints smudged under mine,
ashtrays scattered and aluminum cans spilled
around me. the knitted cardigan cradling my shoulders
smelt like your shampoo. kudzu would
swaddle my ankles as your arms used to.

i remember running through briar bushes with
squinty eyes and copper cheeks until my legs forgot to run.
the blackberries were still red and pea-sized, overtures
still erupted through the commotion.

i kept a dream in a locket, we built a honey-colored
home and we kissed each stick and nail.
i wore my special lipstick and spelled words on our
fridge with alphabet letters, we never sang a reprise or
requiem, cherry pies were doused in hand-whipped cream
and there was always corn waiting to be shucked.

i watched our gazebo strip and burn
with excavator roars. blackberries became plum and
soft, and finales were composed. i'll still kiss my
corn husks with nectarine lips.