Forever as if she and I are contesting
who’s the more hurt—
the one who recalls, or the one who goes
Flat fronts of goldenrod robes as we girls
for pews of men. Explosion when the neigh-
bor boys were paid
once to watch us (sweat pouring in mud
with chairs, red imprint of rope on thighs.
In every reflection,
the smallest hope pants. Still, we were left
of wildflowers snowed over, barely either
as before—the most open blooms, stolen.