This spring, the honeysuckle twining
our chain-link fence remains unplucked;

the wild pear tree, no longer harangued
by greedy fingers. We are too busy sorting

what’s mine and what’s yours, generous
in the dividing. Afternoon shadow smudges

your face. My mouth: a puckered wound
that cannot say stay. We pivot from this wreck,

aftermath of our childish leap off the tracks.
The divergence, blood-orange tang of freedom

before our bodies crumpled under a weight
we were oblivious to carrying.

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M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry and fiction while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, Star 82 Review, UCity Review, and numerous other journals. Find her on Twitter @writermstone and at writermstone.wordpress.com.

Photo:Mike Wilson