Image courtesy of the British Library’s Canadian Colonial Copyright Collection, via The Public Domain Review
Béla is planting mushrooms. He stole them
from the kitchen. “It is a political move.”
I do not doubt him. At dusk he moves
in silence beyond the fields. His bicycle
is blue, his sweater a crepuscular color.
Although there was culinary lavender in a plastic bowl
on my night table, quite literally my nose fell
instead into the tight crease of a black book.
Although you were waiting for me across the distance
of exactly four Octobers, quite literally you had fallen
each separate season on all fours, and not for me.
Although there was a purple vase for the unspecified
if not plastic houseplants you gave me, I put them in a bottle
of coke. I put them on my night table, in a bottle of coke.
Four Octobers ago you promised the tight crease of your
lavender cunt. When it is cold, I take the flower buds
from the plastic bowl, and brew them in a tea.
Zachary Horvitz is from Newton, Massachusetts.