The Dream of Eternal Return
The downstairs tenants have started a garden in the backyard.
They dragged away the blown bags, the children’s t-shirts, the half-sunk pitchforks, the sagging metal drums, the men’s chewed boots.
When I lean out and call to them, they don’t understand – point at their mouths.
I’ve always thought of the soul as green glass – pale, small, breakable, too distant to touch.
The weeds have been stripped, the earth dark, moistened; faint green marks unfold in curls.
Now, a dogwood tree arches and moans in the middle of everything.
Sparrows cluster like savages, chatting and shrieking, pulling at anything tender.
I see it dying at the edges, leaf corners brown.
At dusk, fireflies rub themselves against the night.
Sometimes a woman sits on her knees in the dirt, touching something with her gloves, trembling.
[BIO]: Christine is a Ph.D. candidate in English Literature and was a runner-up to the Poet Laureate of Queens, NY.