June has come,
and I hear the sparrow.
A woman tells me
Her husband says,
“I didn’t know the stress
you were under ‘til
you left that place.
When you came
to a better place,
I got you back.”
I rush home in
my van to tell
you the good news.
There is hope,
I think. It’s real.
It’s right under
the Parkway bridge
after darkness
in which the trucks
honk their horns
before they
approach the light.
We argue first
about orange juice.
I shut down in silence.
Leave me alone,
so I don’t explode
because I hear the
voices of those
who haunt me
from the wars
I just left.
I throw the notebook,
pen and then
the phone.
You grab me,
bend me over,
and spank me
four or five times.
I feel so small
like a little leaf
ready to pop its color.
A child pulls it
off instead.
Somewhere
the sparrow sings,
and I see a shroud
on June.
Corrie's Season 