Dear Amelia

J. David


I am awake ransacking the basement and finding only 

that there is less space between each thing than I imagined. 


Someone I love and someone I resent are asleep tonight 

in the same city and I am thinking of both. Somewhere else


a gardener tends the first of the Spring tomatoes

stroking lightly the still-greening fruit while a song


rises up in his chest. If I knew the words I would sing them

to you. Maybe it is something about the lover of his youth


returning home in the deeps of Winter and shaking off

her shoes before the fire. Or maybe it is a mother’s


lullaby tucked into a quiet surrender. O! There are far too many 

places and stories to keep track of. So I have written them down


each in their place—the gardener penciled in beside 

the time I met God on the back of an Eastbound train.


And I wonder if God had tended the garden

would the tomatoes be any greener? Would we be


any closer to forgiveness? I am asking only because

I am again searching for love’s perfect difficulty.


I am asking only because you know about such things.

God forgive me, I have fallen in love with you.


J. David is from Cleveland, Ohio and serves as poetry editor for Flypaper Magazine.