Today's poem is by Jasmine Khaliq

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everywhere people are falling in love,
even if they shouldn't.
in a BJ's booth two crows are on a second date
splitting a pizzookie. maybe it's us.

on any porch railing I perch,
waiting for you to lean over, beside me,
for the light to strike right our glossy heads so we'll
kiss or nip and maybe I write a poem about how
anyone can see us through this glass door now—

the crow in the street noses your guttered apple core,
regifts seeds at my feet with little spit!s.
if I could thank her—so we regard her
tenderly, stand still in our coats once dark as hers,
will our eyes to warm butter.

I remember the way rain fell fine on my cheek.
how it sloped down the neck, how we ran as long as we could,
how quickly when caught we shoved our wet heads into our hoods.
me with my armful of shining things.
screaming at pigeons. how we collected
feathers until my mom got scared of diseases,
how still I shoved them in my pockets
blue or white or gray,
searching always for the darkest ones,
with the most luck when it was hardest—
sun setting but street lights not yet on,
my apple slices browning in their bag,
peeled and deserted on the sidewalk.

you always walked just a bit before or behind me
until our neighborhood, the white gazebo,
the tiny purple flowers and all their bees.
then you'd stand beside me,
even hold my hand. every summer

we worried your dad would move you to texas.
you parceled red hots into my palm,
sitting shoulder to shoulder on a curb,
heads tilted together. the seconds
before street lights blinked on.
commuters home, cars parked,
a barbeque in a backyard,
pools still and cool.

we never liked each other at the same time.
staggered our affections like daisies in the planters
your dog sniffed and ate, craggy and gapped.
hands on forearms in either swoon

or siblinghood. lately wild
turkeys and peacocks run
in the yard of your old house,
walk the tops of your fence,
the red railing of your porch.
feathers blue and brown in my mailbox
but I wait for those dark as my own,

apple-handed, looking out from a lawn chair,
knowing anywhere I could be falling in love,

but I want it to be here,
and then.

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Copyright © 2023 Jasmine Khaliq All rights reserved
from Iron Horse Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission