Solitude 

That was the day the morning frost 

didn’t melt until nearly noon 

and the clouds hung around 

until nightfall 

so that the sunset streamed salmon 

behind the houses: 

the giant spruce held out its arms 

as if shrugging into a gray cloak. 

In the garden, the little eyes 

looked everywhere except at me.

Waking Life

The last time I saw Billy Behind Me in waking life

he was leaning against the bus shelter on Sixth Street

with a flower pot plonked between his feet

incongruously new and bright and clean.

When we were little

we used to break pots like that on purpose

use the pieces to scrawl in orange on the sidewalk

back when that was still allowed.

Billy nodded when he saw me

but didn’t smile.

I remember he was wearing a blue jacket

which I hadn’t seen before.

You taking up gardening? I teased

or maybe I used a fancy word

maybe I said horticulture

like a complete dick.

Not me, he said. I think you’ve got

a few seeds, though.

No, I said. Not even one

and laughed.

Are you sure? he said,

and I was, I was sure then

and continued to be for weeks

but I’m not so certain now.

Billy wasn’t usually wrong about that sort of thing.

But there is no place in waking life

where I can go

to talk to him about it.

The Cold Garden

In the cold garden, she sudden straightened her back.

“Forty years ago. He’s either dead or very old.”

Same as the rest of us, I started to say,

but that one crow, bolder than the others, 

gave me a warning look,

so I kicked the dirt off my shoes, picked up the shovel,

and continued to dig.

“I can still see his eyes,” she said,

and the sharp little crow murmured, If only we could bury memories

as easily as we do people, 

I didn’t look at either of them.

It was never eyes that haunted me, but voices.

But I wouldn’t say that out loud,

not even to make conversation

in the cold garden.

Patricia Russo's work has appeared in One Art, Acropolis Journal, The Twin Bird Review, Revolution John, and Metachrosis Literary