Infrastructure

My small body on the rim
of a decaying flower bed.

The gravel driveway
leading to all the silent pavement.
The soft rumor of poplars.

The low danger gathering.

And then the ladybug
crawled into my open mouth
and died on my tongue.

Who knows how long
it had been there.

The acid dark taste.

The fields brushed together
and pushed out a hissing sound.

The waves curled and curled
and are still curling.

The drawbridge moaned under tires.
The chalky library steps.

The splinters held tight
in the grip of squeaking pond ice.

Bloodroot. Brownblack
owl nests. Wintergravel
stuck between our teeth.

Lucille Walker is a New England poet. She received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and has been most recently published in Stonecrop Magazine and Bodega Magazine.