After the Pause: Winter 2016

Page 18

Cathryn Shea

The Ides of June It’s my birthday and the backyard is my brain without weeds, the patio a cooked afternoon. It’s where I go to watch bamboo usurp the fence, trespass on the shrubbery. I feel the rhizomes creep along the bricks toward my chair when I try to dream. The sun hits my face. This day splits open in panic, then sighs. It’s just the imagery of another year out of control. The stone in me loosens. I walk on the pathway cushioned with peaceful rubbish.