Trumpet Vine Love Song

by Francesca Forrest

Here on the floor, on a square of light,
lay yourself down beside me
beneath a gauze of dust and sunshine
downward inclining
from a broken window
that the trumpet vine overtangles
red-lipped flowers, and the sound of bees
bees at your lips and mine
a buzzing at your lips and mine
a stinging as we kiss
bees in our blood
is it honey, when we cleave?
Sweet flesh, a scent of melons
they split in the heat
the bees hover round
and the air shimmers 
with cicada sheen
a keening of husks
but the corn still grows taller
and the trumpet vine still parts its lips
and I mine, and you yours
sunshine to sunshine
dust to dust

Francesca Forrest finds that living by a swamp has made her appreciate water and wetness more and more. She plans on cajoling the frogs to teach her how to breathe through her skin. She has always loved black raspberries because you can find them in the first weeks of July, growing wild by the train tracks. When asked of what poem the word "cherry" immediately makes her think, she replied as follows: "it immediately makes me think of a song, not a poem: the song "Witches Hat," by the Incredible String Band, and this lyric:

stepping like a tightrope walker
putting one foot in front of the other
wearing black cherries for rings

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