by Olivia Bell
The first night it’s raining and we go get dry logs
from under the sheets of tin. In the hammock taking
turns with a bottle of moscato. We laugh in bed. We
get tired of the same songs. We climb trees to see
the dark parts of the forest from above. What more
is there. Your legs, on mine, and the fire we built
When your mom cut down the trees to see the mountains
you had to pay a view tax. Paying to see, isn’t that crazy.
She threw away your collection of animal skulls.
I check you for ticks. I check again. I cook for you
with turmeric and slices of carrot and it leaves your
mouth earth-orange. I get too high and we leave the party
early because I’m Tired of Asking You to Stay and I
tell you so and we get all weird for the next few days.
I suffer, I’m quiet about it. Before we left we carved
our initials into a white birch and you said we’ll redo
them every year. Meanwhile I watch the lake unfurl
from here. What once was blocked by trees
now ripples, unbroken, onto the shore.
****
Olivia Bell is a poet living in Harlem. She can be found on X @OliviaBell812.