Poem 93

The fan silhouette to the windows looks almost like a clover,
and I am with you again on the lawn,
with your pinky wrapped around mine
pulling fist fulls from the landscaping,
hoping beyond reason that one of them will have four leaves…
Not that we would know what it meant to be lucky if we got one…

We were the unlucky ones, the children with storm-shutter hearts blown open… But still

You saught clovers until our
knees were blue with jean prints,
our jeans were sour with grass,
until the mountainside swallowed
the sun and for a brief moment
every clover had four fronds.

We were the slim side of twenty then,
still slumping over clovers…
You with an eye for detail, begging me:
One more, one more,
as if I could have said no.

They were clovers after all,
legend myth-mush,
crushed into text books, pressed into walls…
Someday those days will be hyperbole, fish-story-elephant-ears,
and when I tell them I my children’s children
I’ll know it was true, the clovers anyhow, lucky or not, were symmetrical

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