We Aren't

for my own almost other lover

Regardless of how I cut and pull and prune, it takes root, sprouts, flowers: a beautiful bloom that I want to touch and smell and taste.

Next to it is one bitter and deadly; I need to let it die. When I feed your sweet, unassuming flower, I inevitably nourish its poisonous neighbor: the anger I hold for all the wrongs he's done to me. 

I need to tend to my family, not to my resentments and desires. Even when you reside patiently and respectfully in my periphery, I nurse  a passion that conflicts with my reality. I need to let it die.

In the beauty of spring I toil to plow my rocky Folsom soil with exhausting solidarity.

Dirt under my fingernails, sweat and dust mingling on my skin, I reach for a goodbye. I need to let it die.