City of Trees

We lit sparklers in the flame of a citronella
candle in the backyard,

fire in our hands, on the grass—
I could still feel the mosquitoes against
my ankle bones,

all blood and panic, a sense of
depression

drawn by the lights of our mouths and faces.
I thought without saying out loud:
This life is held together by
anchors, sutures,
medical-grade titanium,
but it’s a
good one.

As the citronella burned down, I smelled
it for the first time through the smoke and
thought of

marriage and
family and
the fickleness of people and their relationships.

Back in the woods behind the yard,
I saw the glint of an animal’s eye— I was the observer.
I was the deer.

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