J. Zimmerman

Cellular

Water, darkness, salt, blood, semen. Heartbeat. The taste of bile, the taste of milk. Warmth, heat. Heartbeat turning toward the sun. The softness of apples cooked and mashed, the roughness of wheat bread. The alarm of lemons, the bite of rhubarb. Turning toward the warm bodies of others. Snow falling, ice glazing the river, trees becoming white – green – scarlet. Her hands, hardened by digging a vegetable garden, hardened by hand-washing for the family, hands that picked me up and bandaged my wounds.

everything I am
in the sunlight she led me to
as I bury her