The Zenith of Our Spring
by Charlotte E. Wilde
She was a whip smart girl with perfect Georgia lips but the problem was what the problem always is: empty bucket boredom.
Boredom and convenience, like a harmless two-headed milk-snake (that never-say-never torture device) couldn’t see fit to choose a direction in which to slither home. The girl made me feel things that bordered on insanity— hatred, love, lust, annoyance, thirst— great things, violent things, an alive you’d usually have to pay for. Then we lost our way in the whites of each other’s eye; we skipped hand-in-miserable hand into that space of convenience and ‘how’d-you-sleep’ where my throat ached summer stagnant and I got this itch right down in my left lung to dig deep and reorder the lay of the land. “Allergies,” she’d coo, licking my mind clean like an April foal with her warmth. But I never could stomach waiting for fall, the buds on all those seething branches just looked too tempting not to squeeze.
That’s all it was really, I just wanted to destroy something beautiful. Like grandma’s fine crystal vase shattered in an alley, bent stems scattered, I knew her shards would look good on me. Petal-ink smeared like warpaint on my face, chasing fireflies barefoot in her glass to remind me I’m alive.
I knew her yield like a pile of heirloom seeds. A garden peopled with narcissus, the windowsills overflowing with ‘I need more thyme,” and potted poppy’s fields of delirious deprication call her robin-red underbelly to roost. It seems relationships, like tomatoes, need time to ripen in the sun before the sticky juices run thick down chins and back into the earth from wence they came. But moon-lit scavengers slunk out with sharpened fangs and beat me to the taste.
I just lacked the summers worth of patience, never made it past spring flowers before sowing my garden with fertilized disdain. Temptations’ weeds wander on fallow soil where I fashioned her of earthworm hair and beetle eyes with little grubs white as teeth– nor do I glean my vineyard, nor do I gather every grape; I leave her to you, the needy poor and stranger. She can make you feel alive.
So I remain, pail in hand beside my ripe and rotting garden. But ash and coffee grinds make the grass grow green, and when you play fiddle sweetly on the porch the moths can’t help but flock to the flame.