By: Pamela Riley

I remember the color
of your eyes
that day we drove to Calvary
and how you said my smile
could murder the moon.
Everything I did that summer
was for you –
the shells rattling in old cans
and daisies
left wilting in the bottles.

I planted tomatoes –
beefeaters you called them,
piercing the dense red
with a fork
and salting them like angels.
I could feel you in my hands,
crouched in my nail beds,
as I turned the soil
and nestled the roots –
fresh children
left to wonder
at the perfect balance
of our breathing
and the blaze of heat
curling in your pockets.