Grace Marie Liu | Self Portrait as Lisa Gherardini in a Wheat Field
Here in this mayfly-flecked harvest, there is
no place for the dead–so we pad our paper skirts
with white bone and take apple jelly in glass goblets.
Now, even the turquoise pond has dried, still
by instinct. The wildflowers sigh and shut their eyes.
Lisa, I’ve got a plan: We’ll retire to Florence,
feed ham sandwiches to pigeons. I’m all thumbs–
but I’ll plant apple trees into neat rows like tombstones
for you. We’ll swill amber wine and olive oil,
courtesy of your husband. You can cut off
your hair, or have the evening braid it. I can be
content so long as the moon bleeds through our bedroom.
Any heartache, I’ll slip into green bottles and set sail.
Lisa, look me in the eye and say that we’re the same.
That our shadow will stretch when the smoke thins. Don’t
you love me? Lisa, I’m calling it. Someday, I’ll wake
to find this field spilling over with wildfire, your blue
-black veil sagging in my fist. I’ll spot you, dancing.
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