Sunday, March 31, 2019

The quince bush by Katherine Szpekman

which bloomed fragile, salmon flowers,
just outside the laundry room porch,
is gone.

Only a polaroid survives of it,
and I am squinting into the sun,
vague smile and tilted head.

Swollen buds push
hard beneath a polyester t-shirt,
secrets and forbidden fruit.

I can’t know
how heavy my black winter coat
will sit on my shoulders,

the day we bury you,
after some forty years,
just down the road.

Katherine Szpekman lives in Collinsville, Connecticut with her family. She holds degrees in nursing and developmental psychology. When she’s not writing poetry, she can be found baking, preferably with chocolate.

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