cattails in a bag, carried home on my back
best eaten in the winter, & we’re ten weeks
from the last frost, & the coming on of weeks
& weeks where vaccinations become
engagement rings, become christmas in spring,
become brushed hair & earrings & dinners
outside where i can see you
i can see you now, still, when i close my eyes
& hear your voice through the phone, remembering
how you make me laugh, hanging my feet
out the window, like it wasn’t just a year ago,
eating grapes on the porch steps, putting
crushed beer cans in the mailbox, or
talking grit from the backseat of your car
lunaria in a manila envelope & nightshade
from the dumpster; cockscomb in an altoid tin,
& the decision to stay through summer
& the voracious need to start a garden,
& the ache to be outside alone
& the dream to be inside this body
like i am inside this body
the dog, pissing on the hardwood doesn’t have a name,
& even if no name comes, there will be tomatoes,
& this summer the only fear i will have
is how i will keep track of all the vegetables
& flowers, seedlings in egg cartons,
tugging at my shoestrings, & what light
will i bury them in
all winter, i walked under a murder of crows,
crossing the bridge after work & a week of
single digit weather; when this city spends
over half the year in gray, the crows
taking my breath against the blue sky,
only half knowing the summer will take
the tens of thousands of them away
then, when the dog stops barking,
when the crows stop coming,
how will you know
i am almost home
Danica Dagenhart is a Pittsburgh-based writer, maker, & educator. they are a recipient of The Alex Rowan Award for poetry writing, & their work has been featured in TriQuarterly and Pretty Owl Poetry. you can find them on Instagram @motherweather.
