In Summer

by Emelie Griffin

Whatever spent the winter
holding its own scent
close unfolds

openings relax,
draped mouths of datura

What architecture do
I love that cannot be
penetrated by wind

Easy to think the fig,
blooming thousands of times
inside its own skin
keeps its sweetness for itself
but it is full of the insects
that crawled inside to drink

This is how its taste
becomes complexly satisfying—
the residue of contact

You all become
each other

I find myself thinking,
now is not the time of you

What I say of the stars
when my eyes pretend
they are all fixed
at the same depth

All you beings run
through by the trajectory
of my love collapse
into each other—

so that when you turn
to face me, you are one
I thought I had left behind

This poem was originally published in Prairie Schooner (Fall 2018).

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