The shared lawn is full
of clovers now. Unlucky ones. The perfect supper
for the family of deer just passing through.
There is a woman singing to her child
& windchimes & children’s shrieks & mower lines
wound round the trees like bangles
hanging off of hungry wrists.
He’s holed up inside, on hold
with the unemployment line. Third time
this week. The scrape of decay
has made its way into every part of our lives.
The cat chases a dead leaf. I try to read
over the automated voice
of a woman on the line apologizing
over & over, unable to be
of any help. Eight months now
without pay. The evenings finally cool.
The screen door slams behind me.
Birds of prey alight
on a smear of horizon.
Author Bio: Ashley Wagner is a queer writer, reader, and roller-skater living in Baltimore. She is the poetry editor for Ligeia Magazine, and her work has appeared in Door is a Jar, Salamander, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Grub Street.