Everything but the Pineapple
Virgin Mary sits solo
in the East corner
with smell of diesel
thick in humid air
Half-moon in company
of Jupiter and Saturn
over the river’s bend
I’ve refamiliarized
myself with the canals
that took from me
and the ones we’d watch
the egrets in. On the way
to the hospital had to stop
for a female Muscovy
to strut across to a neighbor’s
lawn. I have a creature
that I feed food scraps
to. It’s a secret
exchange. In the day’s
light a layout of that
which was not eaten: an apple
core, last night’s coleslaw, wrinkled
tomatoes… When the sun peaks
again, it’s all gone. Maybe
an opossum in the lilies, a raccoon
on patrol. It reminds me
of having pen pals – when you’d
write whole heartedly to a stranger
that became less of a stranger
as offerings were stamped
and sent. Maybe one day
I’ll meet my friend. Maybe
it’s more sincere
from a distance
SUNNYLYN THIBODEAUX is a teacher, neighborhood activist, and poet. She is the author of The World Exactly, Universal Fall Precautions, As Water Sounds, and Palm to Pine, as well as over a dozen small books, including 88 Haiku, Against What Light, Room Service Calls, and Witch Like Me. She has a love of trees, King Cake, and writing things down.