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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