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On Returning Leftover Peppermint to My Neighbor
Digestion liquesces peppermint. I chew
the leaves for both of us, an aftertaste
when stillness is an afterthought.
Dust gleams like the raised plastic on a debit card.
Winds seem to bank and then burst through a window
in a venetian blind-slatted sunshine;
bars slit across you on the floor.
Strangers make front entrances where shoes scuff the rug.
The briefest, jagged arcs of light play off your skin,
or more likely, I've been shocked out of daydreams
to come to grips with my shaky hands
gleamed from your hair as I'm brushing
with a sense of care you'll no longer shoulder.
Your doctor rests a hand on a wingless clavicle.
You are so there, on the rug, you're here
in my ear; an undeveloped word swishes
overhead like a bird. It's time I step aside.
Your dictionary, alongside you on the floor,
I can only guess what it had meant to you,
a foundation, whispered, wind-flipped pages?
Your scars had patched
what's hatched in red.
A professional
laminates you
in one zip.
Copyright ©
Barthwell Farmer
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