by Peter Balakian

Peter Balakian

Out of her salt hips
poured my umbel.

My mouth full of shells
and her tongue
a lemon bristling my teeth.

Foam flowered
and the black grapes
tasted sweet again.

I smelled fenugreek,
the cherry pit's talcum,
cod drying like a sandy slipper.

An amaryllis of pain
opened in my throat,

and my silence issued
toward the archipelago.

Last updated February 19, 2023