Seasoned by Beverly Jackson

Last year she was undoing a lifetime of knots,
swimming in rancor under pods of mimosa,
waiting for summer, worried that snow songs
held off spring. This year May coaxes a shadow
behind the fence, dark-eyed kisses in a tub
of hot rain, dyeing her mouth the color of blooms,
promising, promising.

Her house is not empty. The memories web
her brain, and drip into veins running cool.
It won't be July before company comes.
The clairvoyant nestled between her thighs
is sending out signals, tracking the leashes tied to the ribs of lumbering men, synapses
popping in time with a tune, words too soft to hear.

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