Wait Till the Scorpions Come Out, Sara Clancy

-- for N

You hate the desert and I don't,
it's as simple as that. I point out
the blossoms on the clumped barrel
cacti, you show me the pack rat
mizzen in between. We are both

right, but since it is February
and temperate as any June day
on Cape Cod, the point goes to me.
The match will go to you soon enough
in the season I choose to forget,

as surely as the diamondback
death you saved me from tripping
over last spring and the other sting
of recognition from underneath the birdbath
we were foolish enough to move.