they grow no more
where we had scarred the trees
our pseudonyms against the bark.
i only went there thrice.
when you had pulled me by the hand,
we were to track your dog
down in the wood.
the second time i went the longer way
and stumbled through a pepper field
a slipper stuck in mud.
they were still there
in scattered little lufts
a monday morning not too long ago
i stumbled through the pepper field again
and peeked into the wood.
they were not there,
at once the wood
barbara barquez ricafrente, monologues and other poems