from the rim of sadness

tiny and the tantrums
baigz names the jazz band
comprised of new orleans rats, mice, possums, raccoons, etc.
as emory, baigz and i
take turns, sentence by sentence,
building a story in south garden
while baigz thins beets, trish harvests salad mix and i
move tufts of hay with a pitchfork to mulch
the brassica beds
cole says she has something shimmery to show me
and busts out her bronzy cowboyish boots
from her backpack and does a little
light bootdance on the front porch in them
blue ice pack sweating
under the pain/ache/swell of
the ball of my right foot – site of re-injury and
re-injury ever since i got cleated
six or so months ago
how the humidity
(and sometimes heat, which is nothing now
since it’s only may)
is enough to make one want
to shave their hair off
stork-like, the shape of a heron
(its feet out behind it and its bill long)
floating/flapping across the granyness/brightness
of an afternoon sky as i pause
to pitchfork-lean
and watch til it disappears
into the creek-following tree line
getting buff cynthia says about me
in the short sleeves alongside the fresh haircut
we’ll always be sisters i say
from the rim of sadness,
leaning in

the rattly cough of a black cat-kitten
outside my window as the cool rains
come down


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