aren’t they lovely, needing no marrow

other than texan gravel? it’s all over & now

romantic gestures: the phone will ring, it’ll be friends!

the eggplant in the fridge exists, glossy, isn’t it a miracle

the table keeps stretching for everyone who walks through the door? blistered shishito pepper,

cantaloupe, goat cheese, toasted sliced almonds, zucchini flower, pink salt & oil.

evening volts & blurs behind your curtain & won’t you

write me if you see them growing in new york?

you who are, are you not always

& is it not everywhere you are in secret?

thick-stalked & green: time to eat your pie

decant, roll & brim

easier, aerial & brief.

Overheard conversations involve

yard work and sweet hearts and

visiting friends on respirators.

The house on the graveyard’s edge

Accepted Offer sign. Everyone’s

regaining their bearings. Glad

gravestones? Howell, how well

they know you. It’s always the time to laugh.

More garden than ever, Swire swore.

Peter and Matilda apart only three years; Mary Abigail

and Abigail Beth and Baby Son to Addlow and Bertha, May 24th, 1904; all

in good company. This is no small matter

(no small matters in spring). My first hello

today from a stranger. Kind, even,

the stones falling into each other.

I believe it: someone’s singing.

—these silver boots in orange leaves and I’m / going to call Ned who loves

me & she answers but is with Norm in NY & I say / bright apples! to both

of them & love them because they are together / and every part of Ned is

precious & her body is / precious & her toes blanch in winter so I’ll send her

socks (two pair) & I call Diana & she doesn’t answer because she works two

jobs & loves Halloween & has the most / gorgeous (I love her) cackle / & I

call Emily who is anxious and forever / moving & used to dance with me on

sidewalks / in Boston! & doesn’t answer because she’s waiting for an

answer / back—I love her endless / leaving, my ankles down Fairchild & my

father calls & what does that mean, baby—“Imposter Syndrome”?”—& the

leaves are gold here

Abby Petersen is a poet living in Minneapolis, MN.