We brace roots against

an emptying city

as the night folds to rest


along its grain.

The crease wet with saliva

begs the stars to gleam.


Streetlamps have lost faith

in this neighborhood

but we keep planting.


The bulbs cleaved from their shells

become seeds. At the aluminum picnic table

you teach me to play spades.


When we fold

dirt into our hands

we pray for darkness,


play creation.

You plant your bulbous knuckles

and hope for crocus.



fertilizes the tomatoes.

The blue light sugarcoats


the morning glories fraying

along their veins. Every crack

in the sidewalk is a bloodletting


to replace fear with oxygen.

In salt-laced wind I unearth

rocks the same weight as your hands. 


Jessica Beyer is a writer and educator from Baltimore, MD. Her poems have been published in MiPoesias, The Adroit Journal, decomP, The Anemone Sidecar, and other journals and anthologies. She has a MFA in Poetry from New York University and a BA in English and Creative Writing from Emory University. She is currently looking for a publisher for her first poetry collection Questions for Damage. When not writing or working, Jessica can be found waterskiing, scuba diving, and giving in to wanderlust whenever possible. You can follow her on Twitter @jessicahbeyer.