Kyla Sterling: Blue Chicory

This is where we sat once,
cinder blocks
for back steps, trumpet vine spreading
under the siding.

You played so many songs
on your old harmonica
and I danced.
When the heat went out,

you combed tangles from my hair,
fed me straight from the jam jar.
The mail piled in the corner—
old pennysavers, past dues.

You blew out the pilot light,
       then scattered matchsticks about the kitchen.
I taught myself to thread a needle
in the dark, to mend a tear.

Today the yard is wilder than ever:
radio crickets, blue chicory.
I carry a mouse, named for you,
in the breast pocket of my flannel shirt.

She sleeps, paws to her eyes.
There are no apologies—
we have no words
in both our tongues for sorry.