I HAVE WATCHED THE PASSING CLOUDS AND FOUND NOT ONE WITH A FAMILIAR SHAPE  •  June 2022

let me fry gently under the magnolia trees

before the sun withers below the horizon –

in the marmalade light of late afternoon

the wind will dip their leaves into

pools of velvet shade and

ripple the grass like

tiny fish through a

golden pond, water

thick and warm

like stagnant

honey.

in my

plainclothes,

skin cooked red

and raw like pork belly, i

will eat the irish brown bread

my mother made – with fresh butter –

and ignore its freckles of mold

speckling my mouth and throat with

clusters of stale, sour memory.