“…And what does Sorrow care
For the rosemary
Or the marigolds there?”
– Edna St. Vincent Millay
Deep gold and orange, the bloom
of fire trees in summer; the waxy
blistering flesh of peppers.
I recall the story of a man
who sat by the roadside shoving
handful after handful of these
bright jewels into his inflamed
mouth, because he’d already spent
all his money from being tempted
by their red. What have I paid
for my own weaknesses? Night
after night my jaws grind through
the sluice in the cement mixer
of dreams. My hands cup to my lips
their extract: what remains after hot seeds
and skins have pressed into each other.