Richter’s scale
by Heather Bourbeau
Rains have brought mushrooms, softened a thirsty ground,
mulched and heavy with greying leaves.
My neighbor’s morning glory wraps round their trellis,
chokes trees that scratch my home, make roads for squirrels.
The earth shook last night, and I slept soundly soon after.
Should I worry—this messy line between accustomed
and detached?
In my yard lie the remnants of my landlord’s neglect—fallen
bits of roof, broken path lights, balls from children
grown and gone, a green toy soldier kneeling, rifle aimed.
Nasturtiums never planted sprout and spill, twisting
up my steps, covering what the oxalis cannot.
The sun has come too soon. I feel my throat prepare to parch.
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- The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: Maybe the Body by Asa Drake - April 7, 2026
