Summer heat folds
pungent plums into prunes
returning the last drops
of juice back to sky.
Lunar June full with desire,
keeps me feral.
A drizzle off south waits to wash
the Yangtze. My fingers grasp
shriveled fruits with delight,
careful not to bruise them like
an unfulfilled promise.
/
Thorns eroding into palms—
a last attempt
before being pitted.
It never hurts.
I remember how easy
the knife guides
the hand. How my
roots stain
with red.
I’m simply returning
flesh to earth.
Nostalgia blossoms from
ripened seeds.
\
My mother minces pork with crushed plums,
she says that salt brings out sugar. Perhaps
the rain will douse this
sour land sweet.
