“Sometimes,” she says, her voice an old woman going uphill, “I wish you had a filter.”
I want to tell you about front porches. The way they inhabit longing. Your heart is this. This swing on this porch and a woman sitting there waiting.
I’m almost certain these are new-growth trees.
“Sometimes,” she says.
Look, even the windows are holes.
Her uphill voice.
So, about longing. I stood on this porch and wanted.
“I wish you had a filter.”
The delivery man had ideas. Even the windows are holes. Listen, listen.
I dreamed you lost. I kept reaching. Aren’t these new-growth trees?
I stood on this porch, and found myself wanting.