Lying under the plum tree
Buds, ripening like dew in April air
You make plum trees blossom
In the dead of winter
Vigor and bronze.

Apricots on my nightstand
Sun invading my sage linen sheets
My naked body, bare
Hands, against my olive skin
Rest your head on my shoulder
My promenade collarbones
Evoke in my femininity.

Now, you leave me
Broken under the blazing sun,
Feverish eyes and dilated pupils
You are,
Pit of the plum.
Fetal.

The best things come out of the red.
Blue.
Like your eyes

My aunt Lolly used to give me cinnamon tea and orange peels,
Aroma of citrus and spice fill the kitchen,
Deutsch cinnamon to be exact

Quills of cinnamon, steeped into my teacup
A spike of apple moonshine, coating my throat with warmth

You would say
As kids, I remember my dad giving us whiskey when we were sick.

Yesterdays, bottles of brandy
Today’s headache coupled with cinnamon tea, garnished with an orange peel. Miss you

Strut, with swollen feet
Walking on America Street

Sirens
Blue, Red
Red and Blue

Held at gunpoint
Please, don’t make any quick movements
Wince, I looked away.

Old friend
Why didn’t-
No why didn’t you stay
I thought you married her, her blond hair, and soft eyes
Why didn’t she stay

Red curly afro hair,
She is not your age

Why didn’t you give me the time of day?

Oh well,
Walking on America Street

I got high in poetry class today.

She is lovely
like apricot juice-
sweet and ****

delicate
like ripe fruit