patterson
there's a moment when I
think possession meant to have
rather than to have eaten
& then I remember the
way dried apricots & plums
bloom back to flesh in that
way that surprises, as if they were
rushing to remember their thin
skins warming beneath the
western sun while still icebox
cold from the well water the day you &
I walked beneath branches which
bent barely above our heads, you
meandering about the kids & if they were
doing well & how they were, probably,
doing fine, living & working & saving
as much as each of them could for
houses where they could breakfast
without too much debt—I hope they forgive
us for being the parents we were, me
with a brain for words while they
needed a father whose spreadsheets were
immaculate & you who baked delicious
delicacies we'd devour before cooling so
fast we'd forget to save some for sweet
tea days drawn down to summer moons &
that's where I was when you asked if I also
ever felt possessed by this winter, this cold