Honeysuckle
For fourteen years he loved her from
four doors away. After seven years
she planted honeysuckle at her door.
Often returning drunk, their smell
would turn the night to poetry. Her image
at the back of his mind, persistent
as a rhymescheme. One year
she gave him honeysuckle soap
I for Christmas. After the honeysuckle,
two children, who grew as quickly.
Soon her family will move away,
scented vines abandoned. Tonight,
she lies in his arms, palpable as syllables,
soft as nightsmelling flowers, promises herself
within four years. Outside her bright blue door
unattended tendrils wither in first frost.
Page(s) 91
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