by Tabitha Dial
The weeks dwindle
til I move out east to live with you.
We greet coneflower and larkspur
and walk along the trails
while the trees bathe us: Now, our voices leave me
gratefully misplaced with your Brooklyn gravel.
After the first switchback,
my hand in yours, the bur bark and sunlight and kudzu
inspire my mistaken thought, as if we already live together:
This reminds me of Kentucky.
The future settlement’s a phantom, and the outposts largely rumor–
nothing’s been quite here before
Only the turtles who surface for air.
You stay the week. Before you leave I’ve seen
cicada for the first time.
I begin to propagate two jade plants. Lucky
rescues– because I didn’t know before
that I was meant to prune them.
Pegasus 