Mudlark No. 48 (2012)

Cinnamon Angel Wings at Signe’s Heaven-Bound Bakery

Crunchy, sweet, outside on Signe’s patio, touch of bliss
on the tongue, smear of lost kisses, the young woman 
offering coffee refills from a giant push-handle carafe
that dispenses 20 years of forgiveness, a millennium less
in purgatory. What wind what sun what odor of unnamed
white buds disappearing between the gloss of salt-known 
leaves. Strides caked with sand. Beach-damp sweaters a half-
sigh, life gone baggy, gone singing where palmettos bend
to the God of blown cheeks, the damsels with moss-hung hair. 
This you and I a tart sprinkle on the world’s flat palm, a mere 
jiggle, a sonorous dream. Or pock and whack when the eyelids 
unstick a dawn, and pelicans ungroup in mid-air, yet slide
into each other’s wake, a gravity their tug, where moon might 
tumble yet stay put in the vacant sky, the burned-out night.            

John Allman | Fruit-Fly Memory
Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)