It Was No Longer Summer

Jeannine Hall Gailey

When the birdsong came out of your mouth,

when the fig tree grew from my stomach.

The sunflowers bowed in the dusk,

the shadows of footsteps around us in the dark.

We forgot our names, but remembered

the sweetness of a small apple, from

roasted squash, the stickiness of fruit.

The earth cracked open

and crackled, the trees went up

in smoke. Still we persevered

intertwined. We believed

the stories of immortality, we wrapped

ourselves in the scarves of leaves and stone,

we let the sound of water lead us underground.

We forgot to plant a gravestone,

we let the earth swallow us whole.


about the author