Stars are slipping
though the holes
in our roof,
down the walls
of the house
we bought to save
ourselves, each
other in the woods
lit up by fire
flies that sputter
in the dark, wet
lands full of frogs
creeping close, wasps
with their papier
mâché nests crumbling
like this marriage,
gnats at our necks,
coyote song to sleep
that is mostly staring
at the ceiling,
talking about your trick
to mow weeds
in order to deceive
us into believing
a lawn beyond
the fence that isn’t
pickets but barbed
wire and memories
of when you pretended
children were something
we both wanted
like an island
in the kitchen, water
views like the sea
but all I see
is the bog, a crawdad
on the threshold
last week, scuttling
too far from home.
Sarah Fawn Montgomery is the author of Quite Mad: An American Pharma Memoir (The Ohio State University Press, 2018) and three poetry chapbooks. She is an Assistant Professor at Bridgewater State University. You can follow her on Twitter at @SF_Montgomery