Eric Cruz: Harbingers


All morning my throat catches,
the wind gray and wandering
along the spine of grief
hot from the bellies of howling dogs.
The windchimes stir, agate
clinking like a thousand well-learned prayers.

While hearing my children shriek
in Spanish and English–playtime,
two swings rising higher— 
a squirrel rests like a stone atop
the fence. 

This evening is a ghost-life
when mist settles upon the metal gates
and manicured lawns of the neighborhood.
I see it and I grow
fearful the world I want is swallowed.
Reaching through the white,
humid air, I make circles and
clap fiercely. 

Tonight the old lemon tree,
heavy at the branches, rustles.
The fruit is there, even in the half
moon. It is a plea for love,
to not be left scattered on the ground
to rot. 

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