Heather

By Chloe Stricklin

There is grace in the fields as the wind dies
slowly with the sun. Brittle Calluna stalks
dance in the lingering frost, almost defiant
in their lack of blooms.

Brushing my fingers past the crack in the car window
to feel the rush of air, it was unsettling —
the mass decay of a species
thought to be evergreen.

At dawn I return on foot, a stencil of the moon
still visible like a lover’s indent in the mattress
or the ghosting touch of a man
who should not be so close.

Now face to face, I grip the tallest stalk I can see
and whisper with the cadence of prayer
as if to a sentient being, as if the flora could
accept apologies on behalf of its namesake:

I was cruel when I assayed you
through his lens of drunken blue,
but now clear–eyed I wonder
if he plucked your joy out too.