What bloomed from grief came instinct, came wrath. The aftermath of my longing will show on your back like Lichtenberg figures after the subtlety of a strike. My beautiful friend, I do think heat causes molecules to excite, and if you let me, we’ll honor the burn marks after this smudging. But not before prayer, not before kneeling behind you your scent, curiously ancient I’m suddenly wet I want you protected, well fed. So please, let me sage you. The air around you. The air around persimmons you’ve hung out to dry, leaving you / not bruised but sugar-bloomed into a world you want to breathe in. And you’re gonna wanna know what becomes of it, the tsuris of us. Probably nothing, it’s nothing, right? I keep finding you in kitchens. And I, tending to a grow bag full of fairytale eggplants, their blooms bowing down as if in shame or in love or as if grieving was a thing of shame or love or is it your scent, curiously ancient, that is the intimate why of my grieving. ————————————– C. Rivera called us from New York, NY. voicemailpoems.org/submit/ facebook.com/voicemailpoems x.com/voicemailpoems bsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.social instagram.com/voicemailpoems