When We Fight

My husband and I rarely disagree, but when we do it follows a pattern that I captured in this poem that invites the wildness of our garden in. Vine Leaves Literary Journal published in their beautiful artful pages. 

When We Fight

I see the sinewy, sienna shoots emerge

from the flesh of his heels, sprout

out of his toes, worm their way through the carpet,

ferret weakness in the floorboards,

crawl under the door to join the insidious

morning glory spreading its violent tentacles

over our lush tended garden.

Meanwhile, I spit out words that flutter

furiously like Gypsy moths,

clutter the air around my face.

Their dusty wings powder my hair

before drawing to the light.

Burning bright, singeing wings.

Eventually, I gather up the broken moths,

scatter them like ashes out the window

onto the garden below. He dims the light,

pulls me under the bedding. Limbs

entwined like wisteria vines, our dreams

their fragrant bruised flower.

Heidi Seaborn