Sometimes I wonder where you are now or what it would be to have you here. Hello.
No need for repetition. You always heard, no matter where we were. The trailer, the arbor, the pasture, home. Now, following out your voice is what I do, what I try. Take my hand. Lead me to the back field where deer appear. Lead me to the grape vines even if they’re sour, to the buckeyes even if the fruit under husk is green. Take my shoulder, the back of my neck by fingertip. We’ll lead each other through time, through rain, through death, through age, through my body becoming your body, my hands becoming your hands, wide bone splay, rough finger pad, sun. We’ll move the concrete blocks from the garden together, create a new kind of structure, say hello from here.
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Jeremy Michael Reed is a Ph.D. candidate in English and creative writing at the University of Tennessee. His poems are published in Oxidant | Engine, Still: The Journal, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and elsewhere, including the anthology Bright Bones: Contemporary Montana Writing.