It is spring 
with the lilac stench 
reaching for me. 
I barter with the gods 
for rain. 
I missed you and am wondering: 
were you in town last weekend 
for the wedding on Saturday 
and the funeral on Sunday? 
The father of the bride 
stood in front of everyone, 
begged the gods for a moment of silence. 
Our Alberton wind blew in a fierce gentleness 
knocking down the altar, 
like a sign of 
something alive. 
It is spring with 
everybody dying 
in the summer. 
I missed you and the way 
you hate good things 
like rain and weddings. 
Do you still visit that park? 
The one where we thought 
we might be in love? 
Like a sign of something alive? 
It is spring and there are 
yard sales on every other block. 
Everybody is dying and everything is for sale. 
Where do you go to pray, 
in this town with as many churches as bars. 
It’s raining now, 
starting to rain, 
I see god in the old buildings
that still stand. 
The lilac stench wilting, 
leaving me behind. 
I see god, 
her lightswitch between 
matrimony and martyrdom, 
flipping, easily. 
I pray these hills are green 
come August.