texas mountain laurels

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.
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