That one smelled
like a Bradford pear
you said.
Said it in the glade
of broken-downs,
after we’d passed over
the skunk pulled back
to its muscle & stayed
silent about it.
Said it leaned
against the hood, lacing
the air with smoke,
under the mourning dove &
its residual rain. Said
you liked it. Primal,
you called it. Didn’t
my fingertips glitter
with neon dust
the whole time?
I was a young Tinker Bell.
Sometimes, I miss her,
pollinating everything.
Nostalgia is a tease
like honeysuckle. The scent
never lasts. Dear cricket,
in the clearing broad day,
you bring it all back. I remember
my lips curling
from my teeth.
Dipping lazy
into navy
leather seats. Cuttin.
Clitoris budding
into a small fruit. Stay
there.
Don’t rush it.
Too soon that Chevy
will be a memory
rusting in the yard.