Warning Lights

I remember tomatoes and lemons
lined up on the sill, reflecting
in the garden window like warning
lights, steam floating off my coffee
into thickening air, frost thawing on cars.

I heard you say, in whispers
I could almost deny—they hung
on the air and hovered
over us— that you were leaving.
Every time, the wind carried them back.

It’s grabbing a knife by the blade
instead of the handle.

Published in POEM Journal, June 2019

This poem may not be reproduced without the author's permission.