Tenement

Ground floor.

Simple.

Never raised a second.

But raised a daughter.

And maybe a roof or two.

Garden untended.
Too busy.

Or too disinterested.

Random shoots of green.

We grasped.

We watered.

We missed.

Blindfolded

By choice.

Trying.

Peering around the edges.

Masked.

Tripping

On cracks.

Pretending they didn’t exist.

Trying

To Walk Upright.

One step forward

Together.

Three steps back

Apart.

Moving.

Walls crumbling.

In our fingertips.

Pressing.

Pushing back.

Please.

Stay up.

One wall stands.
Tall.
Wide.
Thick.
Amid the ruins.
Directly between us.

Plum Tree In The Yard

I don’t know when they stopped noticing us.

I think someone once said

we should take the plum tree down.

It plummeted as naturally to the ground

as a body hit with a bullet.

Life gave me plums, and then

ripped me open and watched me bleed.

Bodies breaking the surface.

We left the dead where they lay,

squashed beneath the bare feet of children and dogs playing.

I hate taut plums with ruby red centers.

I picked them. I ate them.

Now I am unable to ripen lest I bleed again.

Plums on the ground,

soft and spoiling beneath our feet.