Upper right corner of the deck
I can see it now. Last light
flashes off the copper
chimney from the stove
one floor down and on up
through the roof above,
my hands cupping the warmth,
seeing my ghostly face
wrapped around and struggling
to avoid the sundown coolness.
The sound of the brook
off the deck, clear water
over smooth stones, yellow
flowers growing on the banks.
I am a whore for yellow flowers
I don’t know why—they’re not
I love you flowers, not apology
flowers, and I have broken hearts
and had my heart broken
in many languages and many colours.
I just like yellow. I’m riffing
on the deck while you tend
the fire down below or maybe
you don’t, or you aren’t.
I finally come down to find
the empty gin bottle tumbled
in the sink, your jacket that I teased
you about, saying it was as if a serape
and a hammock had a baby,
that always claimed the same hook
by the door, gone—I never heard the growl
of your ancient Jeep saying goodbye.
Tobi Alfier is published nationally and internationally. Credits include War, Literature and the Arts, The American Journal of Poetry, KGB Bar Lit Mag, Washington Square Review, Cholla Needles, James Dickey Review, Gargoyle, Permafrost, Arkansas Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others. She is co-editor of San Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).