Tulips in Snowmelt

by Kevin Heaton

Evening, early solstice—the greater
of two lights reflects on adding day spin
to the sun; still ruminant and in the dark
about the weather. A single Texas

rosebush awaits her yellow ribbons,
and that first dance beside a sipping
stream. I am not a warrior poet—
musicians are passive men—byline

silhouettes with twenty-dollar bills
and slices of frozen pizza. I will not offer
you vinegar on a sponge at the point
of a spear, or track your rem sleep

from sleuth shadows. There are trimmed
candles in my pocket. I plant tulip bulbs
in snowmelt. Oaths are like psalms.
Flesh is never weak that wets a finger

in the wind to divine a way to share one
another’s burdens—death can only break
the vows we pledge to let it part.

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Kevin Heaton is originally from Kansas and Oklahoma, and now lives and writes in South Carolina. His work has appeared in a number of publications including: Guernica, Raleigh Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Vinyl Poetry, The Adroit Journal, and The Monarch Review. He is a Best of the Net, Best New Poets, and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee.