The berries remembered, though.
And, how far away from them we had
to go to not live the captive life, our
mere existence a sin.
I don't go often to the church in the village.
The tall, leaded-glass windows
seem as cold as
the stone spire above.
Sean Norton reviews The Saint I Ain’t: Stories from Sycamore Street by Bobby Johnston
We taste transparent flames, the spices and fruits for
which we have no names. Savor the bitterness of
ausencia while we sever wrists.
Water dripped from the neighbor’s spigot as the planet held tight to its pocket of time. You told me the joke and the next day I saw tiger lilies everywhere. I wasn’t sure if I had just begun to notice them or if there had been some massive overnight planting.
True, it’s been years since I was last in love,
since someone considered winking at me.
And years since I’ve seen anyone buried or born.
The sun shines deep his bawdy light into shrewd strangers
I woke with a wet pillow and hair tangled,
I didn’t care.
It was Sunday.