We found the boysenberry bush hiding near the fence in June;
the wild purple seeped brilliant under the stress
of my fingers held leveled to eyes. The juice shined beneath the moon
of you.
The summer was disaster I could feel it in my toes, obsess-
ively overstepping pebbles on the trail to the pool, led by the light snaking
down from the bedroom. I cleaned dishes to classic rock and muted
it halfway to hear breeze sit on windowsill. Ice cream cake
for your 25th melted under the deck’s umbrella, you still ate it saying, “Beaut-
iful.” Mornings and berryjuice dripped together onto the grass but Greta Garbo
you and I were in black and white.
When we watched neon caterpillars play
from the porchswing, sections of sky fell to the frontyard and floated to Hobo-
ken. Greta you and I were dyed blue that day
with earth entire. Our eyes, fresh turquoise rhinestones
sealed close and we knew lack of allcolor made a sour cologne.
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