Monday, June 22, 2015

This is a memory

This is how it tasted,
finding myself sitting
beneath the tree in a park

There were three kids
swinging and parents
the size of the equator

but there I was
my feet inside my

breathing slowly
the sand from the pit
where I camped

my tears inhaling
the salt of where the
wind met with earth

and I exhaled
for want of softer
touch on my tongue

I had seen you last
by the tree,
hanging the branches

that were already tied
to the tree without force
I was alone

this is how it tasted
the first time you let
go of my hand-

I knew this time it was like
the end of a Popsicle
where the tongue meets
the wooden stick
and retracts.

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