Dear backyard honeysuckle
Past the fresh lumber of the new wood fence, past the heat of late May sweating on our foreheads, past smoke, past clay, past dirt, past even the diesel fumes, you stay. As if you could become a tree, I want to wrap my arms around you, live there in a sweet weight of love so familiar it crushes me. I had been searching for the right word, any word to name the thing I couldn’t get enough of. My husband behind me, lifts his chin in understanding. Oh, yellow bell. Oh, gold diamond ring. Oh, fruity star under the moon. How could I have mistaken you for anything else? These days I look for my laughter through the window.
Richelle Buccilli’s work has most recently appeared in Thrush, SWWIM, and Rattle, among others. She lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and two children.