for my wife

by Ronald Dzerigian

Backyards filled with pallets, piles
        of dry timber, pools unswimmed and dusty,

trailers parked in clusters of downy weeds.
         All of this is reflected in the freckle on the white

of your eye. Our fingers trace each other’s fingers
          as we watch mockingbirds swoop after hawks.

We make our bed from eight hay bails
          so that we may sleep in vineyards stinking

of raisins. We, each, collect our many beads
         of sweat and drink, smiling, by the river.