snowbirding
it’s springtime in the nearctic realm. another season
among the almácigo ends, as sun shadows contract.
you return north to rustle in the brambles, to nest in
the canopies. you’re foraging, you’re golden, and out of your
mouth-gape, words spill — syrupy, liquid, dulcet. your
lips are slick, a purple-black veneer i want to tongue.
slow, slow, listen to the flutter-drum beat of your– watch for
the wing-quiver of my– and do not be afraid to get
your hands dirty, to taste this exquisite grime.
salt-sour heady, as you drink of sun-fermented brine, you’ll be
reminded that it’s not wrong to indulge, that sweetness and
musk can coexist. and when summer finally comes,
you’ll pick up a cantaloupe, sink your teeth into the rind,
and take a bite. and you’ll say, to no one in particular,
even a bad cantaloupe is still fine.
Comments