my grandmother remembers me in the season of honeysuckle

James Torgerson / V Mag at UVA

My grandmother remembers me in the season of honeysuckle

Eden—

the backyard in June.

Honeysuckle swelling the air,

salt in the shade,

baby’s breath

escaping

the windowsill vase,

wild now.

Infinity was not a

number—

it was his shoulders,

the lift, the throw,

the sky torn

open—

mica-bright sheets, glinting,

as if heaven 

could 

flake 

away.

You touched it once.

Palm sticky with nectar,

fingers closing around

forever.

Eternity—

not endless,

but one afternoon

the lawn uncut,

the light so saturated

you had to squint to stay within it.