Sibilant Ghazal

The hinge of any moment looks forward and back: the past is behind,
the weekend ahead. On the radio: a soprano’s clear notes scale the crest.

It’s long past summer, but the light at night and cloud formations
look weird. And in the morning, the sky magenta as the sun clears the crest.

Is it time to make a hurricane run? Batteries, flashlights, water;
how about chips, dips, and wine instead of fake chicken breast?

Home late, long past dinner time: I’m foraging in the fridge—
mung beans and shrimp paste, wilted greens. Cold rice, lemon zest.

It must be near my period: I cycle from sweet to salty and back
to sweet. I miss the kiss of wind on my lips. Or just to kiss.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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