dreaming

The Dream

rachael z. ikins

 

 

Last night we spoke

of mangoes, pomegranates,

juice-drip, the many seeds.

Curled against my basket

your hot fruits nestle.

Your ribs’ shelf rests,

my right hand,

its silver cherry.

 

I wake, your fingers

fluttering across my breast like

a flock of golden-eyed  sparrows

hungry for those tiny purple berries

I forget the name of them.

 

 

 

 

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