I sit in the corner opposite
my childhood
best friend, running
a needle in and out
of a fucked up seam,
hay stacks too high
for me to see my friend across
the square-cut hole in the floor
we'll lower those bales through.
The scent of horses' ambrosia lingers
in air crowded with dust, animal breath,
and the thick heat of summer.
There is a sweetness
that only comes with age—grass
ages sweeter, and its tender parts fall
to settle on the palet. A carpenter bee
struggles against an invisible web.
An abandoned dwelling becomes her
tomb. Time hangs in the static
of an oncoming storm
while she goes still,
wings splayed
and legs curled
in possibility.
What comes, and what goes.