phil and the setting sun
by: keena du
I.
phil’s head droops
in my direction
yellow-tipped leaves on the brink
of detachment
he is overwatered
fearfully overloved
unable to accept, our outpouring
a betrayal
from the kitchen wafts roasted garlic
deep and nutty and slathered on warm french bread
we press the softened cloves sweetly
to the gold-toasted cheeks
through our kitchen window
the pinks and purples glide
bathing our summer-freckled arms
sheen as soft as olive oil
we are so content
we do not notice
until the colors cast our faces in honey-
colored gloss, and see her
glinting in each other’s eyes
playing peekaboo between the clouds
II.
and then we are hoisting ourselves on countertops and getting clubbed by hanging kitchen
lamps and bashing elbows to unlatch the windows as we crane our necks, the air
cool on our skin, the cicadas
thrumming to our heartbeats
we are flying
down the halls and into
the elevator:
...6...5...
we’regonnamissit!! we’regonnamissit!!
... 3... 2...
we are out the elevator doors before they’ve even opened, urgent
to be drenched in purple
and pink and deep, burning orange
III.
we stare into the face
of our ever-fleeting Mother
blazing pink-
faced sky breaths
dim to sotto voce behind the clouds
Mother, scarved in peach stratus and purple cirrus,
kisses our rosy cheeks
blends goodnight to indigo
from the window, phil stretches,
vined palms smiling
as the ambling warmth drains
lush green hearts
drip from his hanging pot
yellow-tipped leaves
lie lonely on the floor
forgotten and
forgiven.