Cherries Poem by Rose-Marie François
Cherries
The tips of my fingers, Father,
barely touch the tips of yours
and I long for the ripe cherries
far out of reach in the blue branches.
You have lifted me to the mirror.
This red this laughter in my ears
the luscious flesh of your lips.
We should have known
that sky
began at the level of grass.
English translation: Phillip Sterling
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
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5/4/2024 5:26:37 PM # 1.0.0.1119
