by Jordan Williams

To grow down first, then up
in a fruit filled half acre
means a bittersweet bloodline

pucker-tart memories
that sour pop in rear mouth
as though unripened grapes

small, unimpressive green globes
raised on trellised vines
propped up right

down the center of our backyard
like a vein we ran around
during kickball and the landlord, Judy

with her obsessive planting
scalpeled the clay, sewed it shut
with orphaned trees

one cherry, one apple, one plum
a dogwood, a maple, an oak
the raspberry bush we could not resist

sun-warm planets of naive sweetness
summers of picking thorn splinters
out of our girl skin fingers

how else do you learn to hunt
for joy, to devour pleasure
to avoid the thistles of domesticity

here, a mouthful, an earful
what is not your argument or syntax
little breaks &&&where barbs were

pulled from your body.

Jordan Williams

Jordan Williams is an emerging poet who explores everyday life through metaphor and ambiguity. Her pieces examine the connection between people, manifest in togetherness or separation. She enjoys poetry that invites the reader on a journey that begins one place and ends somewhere else, especially emotionally.

Artist:  Eric Buchmann 





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