Incomplete List of Items in the Yard

EMMA AYLOR

Acreage

We woke up refulgent, the sopped air scrapping like cicadas up bark, the wild roses three-glass wine-rosaceal, like cheeks.

This is a sense memory we share: A city of alfalfa yellow with August. A graveled road past the swarming pond. A way of aging houses by counting rings of red mud spoored up the brick, mortar blushing.

I misunderstand what I need—

waking up in the grass, chest warm as vined tomatoes, and knowing what’s that one something I can’t use anywhere.

8 CAROLINA QUARTERLY