Over the Sink I imagine I was born knowing how to do this my belly pressed up against the sink my chin dripping juice and the nectarine letting go of its insides like a believer visiting a sacred cave in order to expel some soft trickle of evil from inside him and the sweetness is covering my hands like a conductor's glove my heart swelling as if bugbitten my face like a child reading by herself for the very first time and pronouncing the words in her head all wrong What is done in love is done well said Van Gogh and I can't disagree as my body devours a flavor I wait for through the season of whiteness and wind I watch the birds landing on the limbs of the dead butternuts smothered in grapevines their trunks greener than the treeful mountains surrounding the airport in Roanoke, Virginia, where cicadas screamed their names or my own and when I wipe my face with a cloth I also remember to straighten my skirts to flatten the puff of my hair and shuttle the now sopping dishcloth to the basket to languor with its dirtied companions
High Summer//Hi, Summer
High Summer//Hi, Summer
High Summer//Hi, Summer
Over the Sink I imagine I was born knowing how to do this my belly pressed up against the sink my chin dripping juice and the nectarine letting go of its insides like a believer visiting a sacred cave in order to expel some soft trickle of evil from inside him and the sweetness is covering my hands like a conductor's glove my heart swelling as if bugbitten my face like a child reading by herself for the very first time and pronouncing the words in her head all wrong What is done in love is done well said Van Gogh and I can't disagree as my body devours a flavor I wait for through the season of whiteness and wind I watch the birds landing on the limbs of the dead butternuts smothered in grapevines their trunks greener than the treeful mountains surrounding the airport in Roanoke, Virginia, where cicadas screamed their names or my own and when I wipe my face with a cloth I also remember to straighten my skirts to flatten the puff of my hair and shuttle the now sopping dishcloth to the basket to languor with its dirtied companions