Journal: “Alder”

My name pouring out of your mouth is berries on the vine and barnwood in the sun; three syllables ricocheting like bird shot in my rib cage and leaving me aching for the taste of your smoking temper. Charred apple and alder and maple love-letters from your bottom lip to mine, gentle as creek water over broken stone, steaming at the edges. Bean fields lit with western fire, crumbling glass hothouses and dragonflies spinning kaleidoscope thread between bridge piers.

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