I am upset about a few things today, including the strong winds. Also, several recent developments have triggered my trauma. This poem speaks to those feelings, particularly the sense of violation that I am unable to shake.
I come to know you through the things the wind
blows from your yard to mine. You once held
the mylar balloons that quiver in the silver maple.
Your inflatable packing is strewn across my yard
like entrails. I walk around picking up your branches,
your receipts, your skiffs of tinfoil. Take my birds
as a sign of goodwill. Let them sing you back to joy.
I’ll retrieve your balloons with a cherry picker —
deflated hearts that announce your love. Your plastic
will become my plastic. Your glass, my glass.
I want your caps, your lids, your Juicy Juice boxes
and their delicate little straws. Let it all blow my way.
What’s this? Your pill sorter. Its chambers are chalky
and taste like salt. Have my watering can and two-tiered
birdbath, my chipmunk and his major and minor hoards.
You crossed the boundary long ago, so take what you want.
This leaf. This seed. This wagon. This hoe.