Long term memory

rain in the distance
cool breeze strokes cheek
impression of warm lips
across arch of back
tattooed on my bones

Thanks Phill for the idea. calligraphy

remembered rituals

plain white bread toasted
spread to the edges with jam
dunked in hot black tea

Mercurochrome spread
quickly over knees scraped raw
the hurt blown away

grilled cheese triangles
tomato soup made with milk
and oyster crackers

respecting elders
always saying I love you
flowers on your grave

bottled lust, or a jar of jam

Making jam, so tedious –
gathering the berries,
standing at the stove, stirring, stirring, stirring
patience until the gritty crystals dissolve
under the spoon, to be poured into vessels,
still too dangerously hot,
to settle, cool,store
until sunshine is desperately needed.

Later, I spread thickly
on a piece of dry wheat toast –
a treasure to be savored
in dead of winter, long apart from
when the berries we gathered
were ripened lushly on the vine;

slipping the black caps from their stalk,
fragrant, juices cupped in the palm of my hand
before running to the elbow
to be imbibed from my sweat-salt flesh
as if sipping fine wine.

I know store-bought jam is easily purchased; but
your lips, tongue against my forearm
lapping the almost innocence,
the taste of silver pail lingering on your hand,
before drawing in a breath deeply:
the pungent blackberries,
the crushed summer grasses,
and forever the heady scent of you.

</p

Tasting passion

I think I’ve tasted passion.
Once.
For dinner,
on a Tuesday.

It was wrapped
deliciously
in denim and plaid
and tasted
of bacon and
cheap
strawberry wine.

I thought I ordered
passion again-
this time trying it
for breakfast.
I remember
it being much like
the soft-boiled egg
I ordered through
fancy room service-
although
I didn’t have
to sign for the bill.

The last time
passion was served,
I washed it down with
several gin and tonics
and an ice cold beer,
leaving me only
a headache
and thirty bucks
in the hole, with
no memories
worth remembering.

I think next time,
I’ll buy my own strawberries,
wear my fuzzy slippers,
and cook for
myself.