Palm-Meadows

He is eating oranges now, sitting at his kitchen table,
picking the peel from beneath his fingernails, not thinking of me,
not thinking of how deeply I sometimes think of him
when I swallow bitter fruit.
This does not bother me.
I have said this enough times for it to be true.
I am in a room with walls that fall only to my touch.
I am in a space with vines that entangle me like napkin folds.
My hair is combed by the fingers of women
who see the ambush in me and kiss my temples anyway.
This is the meadow of palm-sized strawberries
and the flitting gaze of strangers, as if to say:
where you are right now, it is good, hold onto it, hold on.
I am in a place with freshly painted ceiling
and I am wearing shoes that are polished
with the stories I will one day tell.
I may think of him when I tell him
but also, I may not.
—  In the Grove of Good Things | Ramna Safeer
3

Memories from visiting my sister: Picking wild black raspberries in a daisy meadow, palm width butterflies, empty strip malls by night, a Victorian greenhouse, fireflies like dozens of flashbulbs on the forest edge, secret rooms in the closet and behind the bookcase, the scent of milkweed flowers, twilight rabbits, downy peaches, everything humid and ripe.

wild things and restless dangers

In this place, the fields are roaring and bloodless. The wind blisters. The wheat sears. Husks brisk at the touch of wandering hands, thumbs that split and bend their spines towards the starved belly of sky. Everything here burns in shades of gold and green, charred and relentless. Like the rain, everything falls.

The fields have been on fire for so long, they think this is a dream.

But there is no sleep here, only the riot of wild things and restless dangers.

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