Joanna D. Brown

I sit at our tiny, wrought-iron table on our porch

Over the railing, the rectangle of yard, lilacs nodding

Really, it is an inversion of a mask, this rectangle view (Lips of grass, eyes of sky)   Open wide my nose, my mouth

Feed me air more precious than any cannula

On my street, people wear lilac masks on their faces but cannot mimic the spring The bougainvillea biker & his dogwood daughter ease past timid cars and the young chrysanthemum straggles, tilts on her wheels, rights herself blooms forth to catch up

The lilacs mutter like gloves in a rectangular box empty fingers waving Unlike the porch’s glossy, framed invitation the gloves, the EKG machine and I must be covered the curtains down