You on your knees, whiskey on your breath,
the moon a tangerine slice in the pre-dawn sky.
Light waves from my side-porch beacon back-lit
your hair, the ink-black strands swaying and stretching
through my fingers like a dark flag about to unfurl.
Sharecropper, you called me, because I rented my
Tiny red shack on the lake, while you were on loan from
the Big House next door. A tenant farmer and the landed
lord: our crop a yield of uneven proportions tilled in the
dark, on the sly, complicit with the nearby fish and waterfowl
that flipped and flapped as quietly as they knew how.
Our work after hours went uninterrupted, the seamless sowing
and reaping at the water’s edge impeded only by circumstance
and the perils of time.
Who says the illicit won’t grow well at night?
Here, a cluster of Moon Flowers, second cousin to the Morning Glory.
There, a pair of Four O’Clocks whose bright petals opened at the close
of day, then sealed themselves shut as the sun awoke.
An annual without promise of harvest, and you with no acreage