SCARLET RUNNER

SCARLET RUNNER
by Christina Hile

You are not something lost, like
a key, my dignity, a phone number
written in pencil on a white
paper napkin.

You are not predictable, like
a moth to flame, not quiet, like the sun
hiding below the horizon, not shrouded,
like a red-brown seed nestled among
the yellow flesh of an Elberta
peach, not vespertine, like
witches’ weeds.

You fret and strum delicate
arpeggios on the hungry side
of town, so close
my lungs fill with your
breath when I sing.

You vanish then, always, I don’t
know how, like a cloak of fog around
a morning swamp willow, like the laughter
of a little girl at play, like the red
seeds of a scarlet runner bean
tumbling from the split pod into
a wooden pail.

You freckle in the sun, I remember
this, and other things: the way your
fingers fidget when you’re nervous,
the red hair you tuck behind your ears,
and how much, no matter who might
miss you, you love to run.

Advertisement

---