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.







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