fray the garden, ipomoea and tomatillo
vines forced stiff, ruptured and slimed,

picnic table piled with forgotten apples,
pocked with black spots, I keep chiding myself

for all I waste.
I want to say it’s an offering, creamy scallop
squashes piled on the onion patch

going blotchy and translucent,
rosemary I sheltered for years by the alley
now exposed to its anti-climate, but
it was just
that I had my kid in my arms
and didn’t stop in time.

And when we trundle inside,
I rub vaseline on her applechapped cheeks,
pull her, warm, from her stiffened jacket

happy to cut so many losses
so many other losses.

Brianna Flavin

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