Becky Kennedy

IN THE GARDEN

PUBLISHED IN FOLIO 2026: VOL. 41.

May: the deepest dark, as if
there were no end to distance.
Till dawn opens the garden,
small horizon of pines spread

to the back of the house, a
scrap of starlings. The cherry’s
tight with spring, its branches pushed
apart by blue; every day

without you, there are more and
more things between us. Morning
leans in, soft rain of breakfast
talk that becomes what’s gone. And

the poppies: the big red cups
drop black seeds on the lawn: there’s
been another thing each day
between us. The wound of the

pond, its skirt of last winter’s
bittersweet, and the shifting
face: sunlight strides the polished
water. The way your eyes locked

in question: you, for whom the
world was, since you died, there’s been
no resistance of things, or
of the wind in its long halls.

𐫱𐫱𐫱

Becky Kennedy is a linguist and a college professor. Her work has appeared in a number of journals, on Verse Daily, and in three chapbooks; her poetry has been anthologized and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.