born of sweet june

I don’t know when,

What clock’s hour, what day,

Nor the place

When June nosedived

Into my sternum,

Shattering my glass ribs

Making a fool of my lethargic chest.

But she breathed in peculiar rhythms,

Exhaling hot air deep within my centerline,

Syncopated all familiarity I had left.

No lust, nor malice

In her invitation, beckoning me

To surrender my bones to dissipate

Into the flux and dichotomy of her writing.

I wept.

I did for days, really.

A projection of sick vehemence

Until she melted into my palms

And I drank her wine like an elixir

Born of Sweet June’s benevolence.

I wept.

In fervent gratitude

As she regretfully handed me off

To the slow carmine burn

Of July’s conspiracy.

- M. Rose