Poetry | May 16, 2022

Counterweight 

 

In the fall, the garden  

folds in on itself—grand 

stalk of kale on the ground  

like a wilted chandelier, 

still green tomatoes  

that missed their chance  

at red and tomatillo lanterns 

scattered in the turned-up 

soil. I can smell the earth  

rolling over in her bedclothes. 

I can see a crowd of brown flies  

dancing vertically  

in the four o’clock light.  

I find myself courting loss  

as a counterweight  

to the raucous good  

fortune of being alive  

and in possession  

of the ones that I love.  

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.

SEE THE ISSUE

SUGGESTED CONTENT