Elena Lee Johnson
Bit by bit, Your scraper shaves
across my soul’s windows.
The paper I hid behind
(demure roses, thornless stems, respectable leaves)
and here and there, a hole
lets in the light—I guess—
at least enough to sense the shadows.
I keep hope that soon
You’ll breathe a real flourishing
behind the glass:
geranium, lemon balm, mint—
though, for now, everything smells