Were you born alone or did you grow up with others? As soon as you gained some sense of discernment, could spell your name and recite the alphabet, read books (what is a chapter book anyway?), were you taught to run your fingers down the roster of words in both dictionary and telephone directory? In an emergency, were you capable of calling the family doctor's number and summoning him, through tears? Come quickly, I think someone here may be dying. You knew the smell of fruit pinched too soon off the branch, of blood bundled into rags and tossed in the trash; the look of skins palpated for fulness or its lack. When you became more shy and introverted, you could understand why others found you strange for preferring prisms blown from soap and the sap of pounded hibiscus leaves. You didn't always remember the distinction between latrine and labyrinth, cold brew and plain iced coffee. But it pleased you when your tongue could unlock the undertones: vanilla, five spice, orange peel, extra anise.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.