All day the night rested, the black scrubbed
off. The wind carried something other than dust—
so we exhaled far more than we breathed in.
For years, the yard arranged its overgrowth
alone—then a retaining wall poured itself
out of the air, and new wood planks grew
in from the old fence. You supervised the work.
A colony of gulls flew so close to the ground,
they made us feel small, and young as a species.
Like children, we needed a few more years
to turn over the earth. I dug silently while clouds
weaved themselves into my hair, into the cells
of my strained eyes. They wanted me to see
them, but your masked face, as you dug beside me,
was my revelation—altered just enough to be
unrecognizable, just enough to be beautiful.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberly Kralowec lives in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco. Her work has appeared in West Trestle Review and Poetry Midwest. She writes a poetry blog, anapoetics.com.