Forsythia

Kate Welsh

In the bedroom, the forsythia from April is still in its vase,
unceremoniously dried, arching against the dresser mirror.

The branches are a dull gray, brittle and pointed. The once-bright
blooms are papery amber knots, prone to scatter across the floor

with the lightest touch. I keep meaning to throw them out,
to make room for something summery, or at least not dead.

It has been weeks, maybe longer, since we have been
in the same bed at the same time. I keep finding it easy

to choose away instead of here, home, with you. I think
I may be selfish. When I want to go, I want to go without 

you. When I want to stay, I’m surprised to find you’re
not here with me. Tonight, I will sleep in the middle

of this cold bed and enjoy how much of it is mine. Tonight,
I tell myself that tomorrow, tomorrow, I will throw out

the old branches. Tonight, I will imagine what could take their place.

Act of Some Minor God

Kate Welsh

I didn’t expect it from a thunderclap,

a lightning bolt. I thought I was too grown

by now to be upended. I always pay my bills early.

I wash the dishes before I sleep. I know which store

has the good apples and what kind. Walking home

in the rain, the crack so loud and deadly I still

feel it in my bones. When lightning hit the building

over my shoulder, flames leapt up the sides.

The air singed as I slipped home, heart thumping,

exhilarated. I carry stamps in my wallet in case. If

anyone needs band-aids, I have them. I can chop

onions so fine. When we go back, just to look,

just curious, we see smoke in flashing lights

and heavy mist. Rhododendrons trembling. I have

a habit of reading before bed. I like my life

and my own place on the deep blue couch… What

it would be to burn it all down. We walk beyond

the daylilies, beyond the lawn, beyond the line

of elms— What it would be to even consider it.