Fanfare
The carpenter bees thriving in the eaves
and the obliterating sun,
the futility of a breeze,
the roses with hooked thorns, the buds
breaking open at the first slip of dawn,
the idea of the Odyssey, written in prose:
an island is but merely an interruption in the totalizing thrill
of the water’s rough surface.
Moon Poem XXI: Coda
It’s the kind of heat that hangs on
blossoming across the tongue
smokey
like a beach fire in August
when the moon is overripe,
fetid in the sky.
Thank you for being tender,
I’ve seen you rip the spine
from a fish carcass
bare-handed,
that too, would have been easy.
K. T. Mills lives in Washington DC. Her work can also be found published or forthcoming in The Rialto, Mud Season Review, and The Meadow.
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