We decided right then to do it. To commit.
To rebalance.

Something kept striking down, anyway;
old hammers on rusty nails—it wouldn’t quit.

Our thoughts bent, beveled, broke open:
how quickly the dark took us in,
said our names like an old friend.

So we stopped, right there, yes, to
smell the roses—the iron in each thorn,
to tongue the syrup left in each sting.

We bought six bags of wildflower seed:
butterfly, hummingbird, tall cut, New England mix
—
told our son: go wild.

We dusted the yard with color.
Fuck it, let it take what it will.
And fuck mowing, too.

By July, the grass forgets itself:
milkweed, black-eyed Susans,
something purple we couldn’t name
climbing the fence, and the bees—
O, the bees in the thick of it.

We let the screen door slam shut, one hinge
chipping paint off the wall.
There between the frame our laughter
rose, maniacal and free:

We’ll never be able to afford the water.

Matt Wunsch is a husband, father, and educator. He graduated from Salve Regina University with an MFA in poetry. His family is listening to punk rock right now.