Watch Out for the Low Beams

Frieda warned me in the nightmare
as I crossed her threshold of the new house

she was building two doors down.
Look, she said, pointing through the gap

where her kitchen one day might squat,
there’s my swimming pool and magnolia

tree Daddy Jack will plant in the winter.
Over there I’ll plant tomatoes

and I’ll bring them to you
all through the months

of July and August
clear into September

when the nights here
in Carolina linger soft, still

warm as a woman’s
thighs pressed too

long together in church.
When you bite into

my garden’s harvest, think
of sky and god,

of all good things
within easy reach.