first hot day of spring

wrapped in thin lace
of just-wakeful grace
before time sorts memories
by relevance

touching the ruched fabric
of a fitted sheet
tracing raised patterns
of satin chromosomes

my childhood home
and the scent of hot gravel
combine, pungent
like a punch to the nose

my spirit is running
barefoot, pure
where lilacs bloom in the alley
strangers to betrayal

i wonder if you taste outside on your lips
if the scent of wind clings to your hair
the passing cars sound like waves
just like every room you ever loved


Unholy Imaginings Copyright © by Kat Karney. All Rights Reserved.

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