Could I love you in Fairbanks? Would you cherish cut lilacs
if I sent them through the mail? Would they live
long enough to hold their scent, to tempt
you back home, along the road
you left by, hours ago?
Do they even have flowers in Fairbanks
that smell the way the petals underneath the power lines
you said you wouldn’t miss, do? I miss you,
love. Just after the last rain
you stood akimbo in the yard, closed your eyes
and didn’t see the dandelion’s seeds stuck to your feet.
You said so long
to someone else’s sky, to someone else’s garden rake.
Could I clear the vines,
without it meaning something final,
something inclement, or mourned?
Thomas Mixon has poetry and fiction in At Length, On Spec, The Broadkill Review, and elsewhere