Sherbet Vines

Christina Dixie

Well,

it’s like my grandmother’s favorite, green

sherbet after Sunday’s dinner—

(back in the day, pull in my jaw— the sweetness

even a teaspoon)—

the grass are sidewalks

and the tall brick houses’ yards and the braided highways

are made of glass.

And I  stand on an ocean-mountain,

surrounded by trees above the

city—

and they walk toward me.

Palms facing upward, “Whose daughter?”

ptt, ptt— each step.

Their eyes searched each star,

until, “Aww. Yes.”

“Well?”—

I wanna see more. A bowl full—

the vines twist their selves,

and I’m full.

I’m home.

Keep the Porch Light On

Christina Dixie

Boxes and suitcases. Boxes and suitcases.

What you need?

Don’t forget to open the door

to your shelf that holds your hearts—

place one of them inside my suitcase.

So that I remember—

because now when I watch the starry skies;

I’m reminded of

things like

sunflower seeds and how they sound in bags

and things like

the trees and their quiet.

And oh.  The birds

that sing—

an epiphany, I exist—

and when I return, I’ll remind them.