That Invisible Line
by A. A. Parr
for Elle.

Between our houses
a patch
no wider than the span
of a handshake,
no higher than the downswoop
of a stellar jay -
golden flowers
we both wordlessly agreed
to spare, to allow to thrive.

They are only weeds,
and I’ve barely learned more
than your name just yet
but this I know:
you grow.

You choose this life
over and again
each day, each
undaunted stem
more like
that invisible line
run down your spine to
hold your head
in careful countenance.

Across the street, curtains
part, sway, fall limpid;
there is nothing to see here so
eyes must turn inward.

And though you s...

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