Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Sonnet #135

When life gives me lemons, I bless them
And I slice them open, examine them close
I pluck out what seeds I easily see, and then
I pour salt into the wound -- lots of salt for those
beautiful, puckering fruit. I pack them in bay
because the laurel is the victor's crown that comes
from struggle, I pack them in cinnamon, a bay
of the tropics, to remember the burn, The peppercorns
The hardest, blackest peppercorns, to some
A breaker of teeth, but the wealth of the merchants
comes from the way the hard shell holds when we roam
The allspice, too, and some fingers of rosemary's scent
To call upon the mother of us all, who weeps
with pink peppercorns when flowers plucked early, sleep

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