After a Downpour During a Drought
I might not want to touch the battered pinks
beyond the glass, might not want to touch
their petals bruised by the drenching I thought
they needed. Might stay here, inside and untouched,
untouching, in my vigilant quarantine. Might remain
in this chair on this side of the slider forever.
Our quiet road’s dead-end is muffled further
by the mask of foliage fully filled in, July’s
privacy screen seething with chickadee chatter
and the green murmur of shadows. The pinks are bent
groundward in their plastic buckets. I don’t want
to know what it’s like to be so bruised by need.
The soaking I’d be willing to take such a punch for.
The drought that would make me ask for it.
beyond the glass, might not want to touch
their petals bruised by the drenching I thought
they needed. Might stay here, inside and untouched,
untouching, in my vigilant quarantine. Might remain
in this chair on this side of the slider forever.
Our quiet road’s dead-end is muffled further
by the mask of foliage fully filled in, July’s
privacy screen seething with chickadee chatter
and the green murmur of shadows. The pinks are bent
groundward in their plastic buckets. I don’t want
to know what it’s like to be so bruised by need.
The soaking I’d be willing to take such a punch for.
The drought that would make me ask for it.
Liz Ahl's second full-length collection of poems, A Case for Solace, is forthcoming in Fall 2022 from Lily Poetry Review Books. She is also the author of Beating the Bounds (Hobblebush Books, 2017) and several chapbooks of poetry. She lives in New Hampshire.
Art: Sunflower and Yarrow House, oil on canvas, Rebecca Pyle