by Alisa Romagnoli
Her words flowed like liquid poetry,
She spun the light of the sun into gold and threaded it into her hair,
She sucked the seeds of strawberries
Saving their meat for the moon,
Hair ablaze like autumn fires, red red, burning like palms on
Hands cupping knees, yellow and blue.
Bruised fruit tastes the sweetest.
Pink petal cheeks decorated with pearls of sweat,
Eyelids smooth over gleaming green emeralds,
Winking away life’s misfortunes as if swatting flies.
Ivory bone smiles
Miss America in May
In the garden, rosemary and cloves grow as you come their way
You keep the tarnishing gold of the grass at bay.