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Auntie — I can still feel the pulp
residing under my tongue from that time
I swallowed my teardrops with that homemade lemonade you handed me on Sunday afternoon
your bonjour, mon amour stitching onto the heat waves of July
while the tenor of the 2 p.m. radio announcer
droned like the buzz of a wasp-nest on the kitchen counter.
Your voice, raspy from that (never-missed) one o'clock sermon,
gilded cross settled on the hollow of your throat
embroidered aroma with the smears of a fine layer of corrosion.
The rasp of your hum of a half-forgotten folk song,
a chuckle:
The fickleness of humanity! They will be sure to split their hearts apart like your mother did with yours, ma chère.
The smack of an oxidized wedding ring encompasses your figure,
the taste of coppery ozone from the flake of a years-old scab
as I clutch my dying heart in my palms,
while the mantra of
never forgive never forgive never forgive never forgive
pools behind the fortress of my gritted teeth.
The aftertaste of sour summer lemonade gathered in the hollow of my cheek,
tongue lolling to let it seep underneath my skin.
Its lethargicity blooms in the cavity of my chest like carnations leaking fuchsia.
My teeth sinks into the tart flesh of la pêche,
the flavor unfurling like the gasp of a newborn;
my fingers, untangling from the skin tight grasp of fabric,
in order to grip life between each breath,
And me,
swollen-up and bruise-speckled;
alive, thriving,
with lips tainted with the color of summer's first dying breath.
