Lucia LoTempo

wind takes down
the big branch
heavy with fruit

insist it was lightning—it was not
with splinters and steam

at the drops all heat

incline of rushed
brown water and twig

in the window
a reflection of bark
wet on my face

another mess
in the next
room over

I would like
to scrub
and with bleach

face a half
and small

a woman tells me
something happened

I still must pick
up a shirt
from the dry cleaners

I hate the word duty

at every brow, me
a warm sponge

and I am asked to cover
my name like a palm
on my heart

and I have a room
with a man

and I hand the man
his shirt

and I throw
away our mail
without opening

and a sprout
from the spot
on the rotted apple