Raspberries and figs and peaches
in the summertime, ripe
within the lawless
lands of torn up glass and half
finished projects on the cracked
footpaths where
a man pulled down his pants
and lightened his body’s burden
right in front of the stray cats
who took over the empty houses
on the block as day declined
into dusk.
No one saw the sunrise there.
Not in the once vacant lot,
littered latex, needles, neglect
turned scruffy garden ground
for the neighbors, goats, chickens
amid the many troubles of the day.
There was yelling and yarrow
flowering, roaring.
Smashed tomato and squash.
Slumped, sagging bodies
drifting home to tents
and frayed tarps.
Still, fireflies visited
in June. Monarchs flew
over the bottles and debris
in September. Pitbull puppies tumbled
in December rubble, smiles splayed wide.
Anna Drasko is a writer living in East Tennessee. Their work appears or is forthcoming in The Missouri Review, Chestnut Review, phoebe, Good River Review, and elsewhere. They hold degrees from the University of Pennsylvania and Penn State. Find them on Instagram @annadrasko.