(LYRIC PROSE)
THE LATIN NAMES FOR LIVING THINGS
SARINA BOSCO
THE LATIN NAMES FOR LIVING THINGS
SARINA BOSCO
A year since we made jam with the wild grapes, leaving the seeds in for the crunch. We have become the botanists of failed friendship; always I will offer you lilacs. Always we will stand ankle-deep in copper mud, searching out raspberries among the brambles. You say trout lily and blood root and I know we are both afraid of never finding love. I will show you the house in the woods, surrounded by daffodils and violets. The vernal pool with skunk cabbage. Beauty twisting from the grime. Bursting from the decay. We will cup frog eggs in our palms and tell each other fears; secrets; the men we have let enter us and leave, taking something as they go.
On our way back through the oaks we will uncover the quartz that was left here eons ago. White as a virgin. Each of us will take shards home. At twilight I will rub the tomato leaves between my fingers. You will devour berries, breaking them with your tongue against the roof of your mouth. We know the mint is there but can’t scent it until we’re upon it. I resent the forsythia for its fast, devouring growth; you love it for the vibrant color, the way it stretches up. There is life in there among the roots. Rabbits, moles, black racers, colonies of ants that don’t know anything about the constellations or tomato bisque. You tell me about the men you meet in parking lots and I can’t look at you.
*
When I lose you I will still cut the lilacs. Diagonal, splitting the ends, inhaling them. I want to tell you the story of the cigar tree. Of roaming the house at night and crying halfway up the stairs. It’s better to be in love, we said.
But you are somewhere out in the woods digging among the leaves. Looking for the small delicate things. Scared for them. In awe of them. Look, I want to tell you. In my mind we are both crouched next to the water with the silt stirring around the arches of our feet. We will be fine.
And you will tell me about the peepers, their voices at night calling out.
*
When I lose you I will learn how to make the jam myself. I hope that you are somewhere spilling the insides of tomatoes, in love, happy, raw and exposed to the universe.
On our way back through the oaks we will uncover the quartz that was left here eons ago. White as a virgin. Each of us will take shards home. At twilight I will rub the tomato leaves between my fingers. You will devour berries, breaking them with your tongue against the roof of your mouth. We know the mint is there but can’t scent it until we’re upon it. I resent the forsythia for its fast, devouring growth; you love it for the vibrant color, the way it stretches up. There is life in there among the roots. Rabbits, moles, black racers, colonies of ants that don’t know anything about the constellations or tomato bisque. You tell me about the men you meet in parking lots and I can’t look at you.
*
When I lose you I will still cut the lilacs. Diagonal, splitting the ends, inhaling them. I want to tell you the story of the cigar tree. Of roaming the house at night and crying halfway up the stairs. It’s better to be in love, we said.
But you are somewhere out in the woods digging among the leaves. Looking for the small delicate things. Scared for them. In awe of them. Look, I want to tell you. In my mind we are both crouched next to the water with the silt stirring around the arches of our feet. We will be fine.
And you will tell me about the peepers, their voices at night calling out.
*
When I lose you I will learn how to make the jam myself. I hope that you are somewhere spilling the insides of tomatoes, in love, happy, raw and exposed to the universe.
Sarina Bosco is a chronic New Englander and reluctant homeowner. When not writing, she can most likely be found washing dishes or hiking the surrounding area. Her work has previously appeared in Cider Review, The Missing Slate, The Sonder Review, and others.
