my garden in spring

i’ve been thinking about how you
never did get to see
my garden in spring.

the first of the tomatoes ripen.
when the light hits them right,
they tint the cobblestones pink.

i slice and serve them to girls.
a piece of myself leaves with each of them.
every sunday, my kitchen is a cacophony:
floral perfume,
bright blue combat boots,
wine glasses from last night,
dirt under my nails,
juice staining the counter.

maybe if i’d fried my tomatoes for you,
you would have liked me
– at least more
– at least a little
– at least enough to stay
but it was september.

i remember seeing your garden then.
it was nearly twigs,
and rotten fruit kissed the ground.
i wonder if it’s green like mine,
or if you left it to wither away.

the april sun sets on my garden,
cool and soft.
if i squint the right way,
it looks like you, a bit.
i never forget.
maybe the wanting never ends.
maybe every spring tomato is at least a little yours.