November 21

comments 6
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Mums are finished
nothing left to write about
except the radish

And I return to lemons,
their solar scent,

spice dishes with a heavy
hand. I might collect jars

of jam, seeded with constellations,
figs from the Adriatic,

salt, pine, and citrus–
once I wandered

the walls of Dubrovnik,
above the red clay roofs–

and yet it’s still winter,
and here I am,

haunting or haunted, steam
rises from my soup.

 

 

 

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6 Comments

  1. Love your poems! Blogs like this inspired me to start writing my own, they aren’t as refined as yours obviously, just the poems of another 18 year old girl. Looking forward to your next posts.

    Like

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