Penumbra Weekly

cracked            lips      only     getting 

drier       until                 im     forced 

to keep my      tongue                             

surrendered          to      my     cupids 

bow       if   the         man         across 

the street                            thinks  i’m

flirting with                   him       he is 

sorely                               mistaken 

my mother       tosses       me a busted 

nectarine     from           the     market  

basket &            flies     buzz  

to my hands                                  like 

bees      to         their                   queen 

simple                                    sweet 

             funky                 &             sour  

juice     pools               into           the 

cracks  of    my                            palm  

until    i              come              to, 

drop    the                  fruit  

back    into    the                  basket, 

wipe    off      my                         palms.