Blueberry Pie
It’s the way blueberry stains your every word,
how yellow taxis decipher the subtext
amidst quiet dialogs of night and moonlight that
I find myself beguiled, awash in summertime’s
Slip N Slide, badminton strokes against deepest
embraces no orchestrated candlelight
can unveil. How your fragrance washes up ashore,
fingers shipwrecked on your nape, the brushing
away that follows all the misaligned, melting stars.
A nibble and bite to safely anchor scars to those
silent jukeboxes––our hearts. Warmest lips half part,
drowsy fly trap snatches at unexpected visitors
to reinvent the language that fashioned us once before
in the likeness of ripened blueberries
perched now, as if on a plate of half-eaten dessert, our
à la mode blown out beneath dancing
smoke signals, this crumbless dissonance reawakened,
wide world shut away until the black napkin drops.
Every Monday, GJC will be sharing a poem from John T. Trigonis, a local JC Heights resident, poet, writer, and coffee aficionado, in our Monday Musings.
