I want to live in that interlude, after the goodnight conk -la -ree of red-winged black birds settling into the cattails, before crickets’ chirp
after birth of the nascent polliwog, before it sprouts legs to leap from the amniotic pond into the claws of a hawk
after the peach sun ripens to pink on the western ledge, before its bruised skin spreads across the sky
after mid-day calm before the evening breeze quivers through silver poplars until leaves murmur like gossips’ tongues in church.
I want to live in that interlude after I sat down for supper, before the phone’s shrill chirp, before I put on this midnight dress, before I placed burgundy roses on your casket of poplar, before the parlour filled with murmurs.
When I still inhaled indigo and exhaled champagne-pink.