Jackie Anne Morrill
Cantaloupe as a cure-all, or how I know my mother
When the bones
settle
these metals we
are made of
finally loosen
I long to untie
the velvet bag
of river stones
residing in her
back
piling piling
Her voice the
first time
my cotton undies
crusted
with a red
foreign ache
she scooped
sherbet-
colored melon
into a bowl
Now eat.
“Write me a nice
poem,” she says
“something nice
and understood.”
What’s left?
The daffodils on
my coffee table
muscular stems,
belled snouts
the reason you
gave me to spring:
Persephone has returned.
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