Clearing Out

A strung-up cable

bows for a lone cardinal

blown in early. Red

crown, leafless grey: indistinct,

all, to a color-blind boy.

A chickadee’s twitch

lofts what limbs are left on a

pruned tulip poplar:

puffed-out wing-thing enmeshed in

the brittle logic of flight.

Stone Way North

The crane’s arm pivots, its cockpit

flag

claiming the skyscape

above the old quarry yard. Now razed, the lot

holds

a copse of scaffolds

for stories of steel. Across the street

I water

rooftop beds: bleached

Sterilite tubs of kale and herbs,

rustproof

aluminum trough

companion-planted with basil and tomatoes

(Brandywine,

Sungold, and Gold Nugget

already in bloom). “What will you do with them all?”

my mother asks.

“Eat them,” I say.

What will we do—love, you

selected the Pink Berkeley Tie-Dye

for slicing;

I, the Golden Rave for sauce.

What will we do with Sunny Goliath?

Black Cherokee

pulp to purple the mozzarella

on the nights when it’s too hot to be

hungry.

When we sleep, only our toes touch.

When the chill returns, I’ll stir

the sauce pot

while you seed and peel. Won’t you,

over the simmer, soothe my shiver—

boil,

pour, and seal.