an essay about the day after wednesday
it's thursday again. I'm in the backyard digging a ditch, burying everything I've ever known
about color, including color. today's been a tough go. this morning I woke up with my lips
clenched against a dream. in the dream there was you, dressed in a gown whiter than fresh
enamel, climbing into a casket of linden.
an essay lost in the jungle, seeping spinal fluid
I come outside to watch you pull weeds from the garden. it hasn't rained in weeks but
inside always feels so damp: there are thunderstorms in the bathroom & the sink
constantly drips drips drips. I see things so quiet I don't know if they're real. what I do
know: there is nothing left but magic, dirt, weeds growing growing growing. soon our yard
will be nothing but jungle—people lost in the weeds higher than trees, their spines
hunched like capital c's as they blindly find their way to wherever they belong.
Lee Patterson's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Thin Air Magazine, Entropy and Queen Mob's Teahouse, among others. His chapbook, "I get sad", is forthcoming from Ethel Zine in late 2019.