SPITTING PITS INTO MUGGY MORNINGS
June seeps into July
and pools like peach juice
at the hem of my blouse.
Another summer drawn out
and stepped on like shoe laces,
I am once again drinking the sun.
Hot days where air is thick in my lungs
end with a piercing plunge in the river,
washing the tart worry from my body.
I feel my toes go numb
and things begin to make sense.
Time soaks into my skin
and stains my lips like the blood of a cherry
Before I know it, I’ll be spitting pits
into the muggy mornings of August.
I want to hold on,
To stain another blouse,
To sink my teeth into the marrow of this life
and let the juices stick to my chin.
July 2023
Center
Touch of the River
After the Floods
Becuase I can listen to you,
And you can see me.
The window fan,
the blind tugging of time
sweetned by lazy summer air
and the last of pale light.
Just West of swaying cornstalks,
where manure swells in our nostrils,
we will fill our lungs with smoke
and the smells of my past will escape beside the river.
I will sleep well tonight.
And you can see me.
The window fan,
the blind tugging of time
sweetned by lazy summer air
and the last of pale light.
Just West of swaying cornstalks,
where manure swells in our nostrils,
we will fill our lungs with smoke
and the smells of my past will escape beside the river.
I will sleep well tonight.
Beloved Bird
