texas mountain laurels
By Macks Cook
I set out to mingle my breath with the breath of the Texas mountain laurels. there were long-necked mourning doves tossing kernels of pollen about like confetti; my neighbor mows a lawn in slow concentric circles— she does half the lawns on the block, alternating weekly. swallowing syrupy grape Kool-aid air. pushing back her shock-white hair, she doesn’t need to stop for a drink. oh Macks, why must my blossoms be so sickly-sweet? a mockingbird has made its nest somewhere in the high branches of our old pecan tree. he has memorized the rapid beeping sound my car makes before I hastily turn back to lock it. despite my forgetting to do this less and less I am still greeted by that same sound now coming from somewhere above the house. be patient, you smell like being alive.
be patient, you smell like being alive.
The Trinity Review 