incantation for a gemini
It's blossom season. It’s warm with a bite,
everybody bleary like new fat flies
bumping by on the sidewalk
and I’m counting out change
from the weeks
on the kitchen table
like they're trying to cheat me.
Whisper silk petals unfurl
and future lovers look
at each other
a certain way—
flowers open to cracking,
soaking up heat
till it hurts.
Finally we remember again—
wasp sting grass stains,
sun cool blue shade,
kind green bites
of broad new leaves—
remember why we let ourselves
get drunk each time
on dappled dusk belly laughs—
remember that peonies
will grow
too large
pressing faces shamelessly
to chain link fence
and so will we, to kiss them.
And while kissing them wonder,
while drowning in perfume—
will it always hurt like this?
Like blinks before eyes well up
air electric
between skin
and the point at the skin
bird behind glass,
not quite home ever hovering,
never nest again?
When I choke
on the nectar
of the blooms
in spring
Can it ever be without longing for the valley?
Yes we’ve remembered
but forgotten where to put it all;
forget now how we ever
had the room.
I do not want to close my door to it
in mid-June lush
and kind cool rain,
I do not to be without the feeling.
Pry at ribcage like bear trap
to try and open up
let in some green
soak up heat till it hurts—
and then a stupid song will blare in my earbuds
to snap me from the brooding.
Soon the streets will sober up.
We'll forget again
cold purple shadow sun teeth
and remember ourselves—
patting down pockets
for lost time—
and blossoms will puddle
pink and impossible
around floating car tires,
and parking meter islands,
and the clouds will hang heavy,
and the schoolyard will grow wild again,
and you’ll put your glasses back on,
and the man with the hedge trimmers
will shear the shapes away.
I’ll stop
counting change
until next year.
xo
Emmali
Satisfying