On My Tongue
it is rains residual
a hiss
from new grown long grasses
chirrups memory
from hoppers of deep discarded
poppy fields
where serpentine it weaves
to bug me
this hissing
inches wince
bringing lips to pucker
here
not for kissing
for these
lost summers breeze through me
from before such things
and as lips
pucker here
reminiscing on the riffing
of acidic drip
fizz in flesh
of lemonade
sold from our makeshift market
i remember
through the haze
and taste again
noxious sugars of childhood
spoiling me
before the taint
of all that poppy seeds
could mean
for the pain
Rick Dove (c) 2016
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