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