Three poems by Heather Gustine

Upon Finding Valentine’s Day Candy in My Desk

Under the credit card bills paid too late
high school report cards and notes
from friends long forgotten
is a red and white box
the chalky well-wishes
and promises of
Valentine’s Day

From Dave,
tall, green-eyed,
lop-sided grin
sat behind me in Calculus
always borrowing my calculator
and paying for my dinners
he forgot the “r” at the end of my name
later dumping me for an easier spell—Kara

I shuffle the candy
like a deck of cards
a cloud of saccharin dust dissipates over
the I Luv U’s and the Kiss Me’s

I pick through the stale pastels
and notice there are no Fuck U’s or I Lie’s or
Cheater’s

So I pop a purple Miss U into my mouth

and suck on that.




The Thing I Hate

about cutting your grass
is matching your long loops.
I have to spiral inward until it’s just me
and the red mower out there in your four acres.
I must finish off the last of it with Grandpa’s hedge clippers,
sever the necks of dandelions,
spray the remains with weed killer
like you showed me.
The stripes, waves, and crop circles of other
more liberal yards will not fly here.
Last time I thought I was being cute,
chewing out my initials over and over with the push mower,
but you freaked, shook a garden spade in my direction.
Would it kill you to pay attention? you asked,
chunks of topsoil and clay
showered your white sneakers
as the mower idled between us.
I had given your lawn a new whorl
and scattered dandelion seed
in one fatal swoop.
Just go.

I am alone this time,
and cut the grass angry
for your arms that yellowed under the hospital’s lights.
Drop the blade low and cut deep
for the deli meat sheen on your face.
Rocks and tree stumps ping against metal
for the dialysis machine that ticked our foolish seconds together
and for your erratic breathing,
and for me, who has to come out here every week—
you wouldn’t have it any other way—
to tend to things.

Out here, I run along your veins
then listen hard at the distance
for the dandelions’ release: a sigh.

Heather Gustine is a graduate student at Chatham University where she is pursuing her degree in poetry and publishing. Her work has appeared in The North Central Review, Ship of Fools, Nerve Cowboy, and Permafrost, among other publications. She helps edit the literary journal, The Fourth River.