November 21

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.