a ceramic stone in a small rose garden

a transducer passes

dirt, thorns, three pandemic months when holding hands 

is riskiest 

 

I hear the word ectopic and two ducks fly 

close enough to my face to whisper 

what are you doing 

on my water 

 

six weeks post-methotrexate she asks why

are my breasts still swollen why,

at my lightest, do my feet push the roses down

through dirt 

 

to which I respond: I tried to hug myself

I tried to take a long walk through sun-stained 

sand, I pray sometimes 

before I sleep

 

& in both my dreams and nightmares our hands are fixed together

 

& new winter roses bloom over summer soil

 

& the ducks land with such grace, I almost miss it