Thirst in the Thick of It
Thirst in the thick of it.
Ruby red rhubarb boils in the pot.
Sweet and sorrow of forget-me-nots
in blue clusters of wildhood.
White laced lilacs in jars
for remembrance
on linen-lined altars misted
with the twin fragrance
of Mary Chess on my mother’s
breast, re-gifted from my aunt,
allergic to the thick scent
of generous. Thirst in the thick of it,
in the thicket of thorns
adorning the edge of the barn,
a necklace of raspberries ripened
for the pricking of hands.
Fruit stolen by children,
feral and longing for fun
in the sun of late Sundays
when plums dropped to the ground
after the cloy of incense,
dense in the apse of
mysterious reverence.
Thirst for the thick of it
and for days spent in the glorious
godsend of thriving.
Cynthia Dorfman writes from Maryland and Wisconsin, depending on the season. She is a frequent contributor to Moss Piglet Journal, and her recent work appears in the Journal of Expressive Writing and Bramble, the journal of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.
