(2) Roses in pots; stubby, uneven grass we believed would grow into luxuriant green. We tried to make that garden as pleasing as others'. I remember mint growing on one side of the porch, bougainvillea quickly taking over the wall. No birdbath or statuary of cherubs, but Saturday afternoons we drank soda on the steps, fingered dog-paged komiks borrowed from the corner store. Angela puckered her lips and boasted that she'd filched her sister's tube of coral lipstick. Unless the grownups were around, no one really batted an eye, not even when she asked if we wanted to see the lace edge of her new panty. On the downwind, the heavy musk of magnolias. The call of owls at night, always interrogating.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
