I loathed their deep-seeded
imputations suggesting commitment
beyond the season. In the morning
I didn’t know how to reach you,
so I pulled string through paper cups
and heaved your half over the 12-foot
wooden fence between us. A message returned,
that you were out to work, so, pretending
to garden I hauled fertilizer and watermelon
seeds in a rusty wheelbarrow: its handles
jostling over uneven terrain. If I plant
your name in tulips will you remember me
in the spring, or will you wake to morning light
searching for another to keep your bed warm?
Hailee Sattavara can be found shuffling papers with a green pen in Mid-Michigan coffee shops.