Your Garden and the Praying Mantis

For Rick

 

The abdomen of an adult mantis

Is covered with wings. One scalding

 

Afternoon you dripped under a black

Shirt and told me how a mantis nods 

 

Its wings in flight at you, in the air

A hint of green, rusted blades.

 

The moon tilts, a succession of 

Saucers aloft in an expanse of blue.

 

Dark overgrown summer, thick

With undertow, rooms so deep

 

Iridescent fathoms which brood

Before a storm, bow to the thunder

 

Heads, an engine throttle. In the arch

Over the tulips where the fireworks

 

Grew restless and flew into the garage,

As if we were a rogue target. Such are

 

The days unwinding anymore, we forget

How to plan, and unfold our shirts that is

 

If we remembered to fold them while they

Were still warm. The paramedics took hours.

 

You took time off the wall and played 

With its hands, shook its face. Time said 

 

Nothing. The scaffold and the cautious

Creeping gnomes, a swarm of daffodils

 

Scrape the side of the garage. You spoke 

Of your own death long ago, unafraid

 

In the room with ripples on the ceiling,

An echo of aging paint and restless wings.

Sara Dallmayr is originally from Kalamazoo, Michigan. She attended Western Michigan University and received a BA in English/creative writing/poetry. Her work has been published in The Esthetic Apostle, Texas Literary Review, The Tiny Seed Literary Journal, The Write Launch, and Glowworm. Dallmayr currently live in South Bend, Indiana, with her husband and three cats. She works for the post office as a rural carrier and sometimes prefers to slip into a dimension more comfortable.

©2018 HighShelfPress. 

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