The leaves came in after a long and hard winter;
the pollen polluted our air. We kissed.
An old man watched us between the branches.
We scoured each girthy arm for places to carve our initials
so that we might live forever. Sober,
I swooned. You pulled your mask down to kiss me
only to cough. We sucked face anyways. Now I understand
why mint is an invasive species. How it can ruin a garden.
Most days I weep. I thread my thoughts through your likeness.
I hope every spring is like this one. Ruin me,
so that I might sprout again.
–
Bea Bolongaita is a Filipina American poet. Her poetry has been recognized by the Ohio Poetry Association, and she is an associate at the Kenyon Review. Bolongaita’s debut chapbook, The Tomato Woman, is forthcoming from Sunset Press in May 2023. She studies political science and Chinese at Kenyon College.