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Victoria Davis

1. Song

There was an upright piano

in my rented room in North Carolina

I learned to play

my favorite melancholy song, two-handed,

dropping my fingers to make the sound.

I played it, hot and alone,

over and over in the afternoon

and never sang.

2. Vines

The vines frothed like a cappuccino

bubbling leaves pouring greenly

over the trees, upholstering

chain-link fences.

Residents hated them.  They were planted

deliberately in specific places, but they stretched

and became feral; scrambling over boundaries,

enveloping anything that rose,

that stood upright.

They are a nuisance,

beautifully eating buildings.

They were symbolic and exotic,

but I never touched them.