by A.M. Kennedy

In the summer we sit and drink hot tea, run the fortune leaves
around the bottom of the cup, rinse the unlucky.
In the garden at sunrise we sit, effervescent
like sticky–sweet honeybees.

You don’t have to read to know how to press bluebells between
the pages of brittle paper bibles until they bleed
indigo and aromatic, flat but everlasting.

They tell you first that no one wants a thing with sting and no
flower,
so they teach nail filing on the chalkboard by practicing cursive,
how to flow like a river, how to bend like a stem to sunlight.

By afternoon some of the girls do grow cymbal forearms,
ambition like a storm head, a lava slick of sour, they run afoul
unapologetically with flinty smiles and overly sharp teeth.

But by June or July, they’re taken to learn how to
make a honeymoon so sweltering the night sky wanes in salt,
how to part thighs like earth blooms and new growth.

A mother holds tea parties with a bowl of poisoned sugar,
we sit in a crescent with our wounds all exposed and have
another.
When we hit the fall, it’s a slow and thick descend across the
sheets,

sticky, but bitter as the Sungkai.

by A.M. Kennedy

The snake was hungry, so I gave it my share of the plate,
and when it was cold I gave it my skin, let it wrap its scaled body
around my throat, around my wrist,
and when it bit me, I was surprised.

There’s nothing in the garden that can’t be ruined
by a hundred different things, all competing at entropy,
I name the snake Murphy, and when it sheds its first skin,
I take it as my own.

In the summer we read by the lake and I delicately tongue the
sibilants as if tasting how they might lend themselves
to my own tongue.

In the winter the meat is meager and Murphy
tells me he’ll take a hand that feeds instead of starve,
but now I’m tough like a jerky, muscled and thin,
skin covered in protective scales.

In the sunlight my skin glimmers, each shed prettier than the last,
and I too grow hunger for the taste of something
between my teeth, soft and gullible that won’t put up a fight.

Murphy thinks I am beautiful in the spring, he warms me up,
and when he finally lets me wrap my body around his wrist
I sink my teeth in to satisfy the urge.
He is surprised.

by Margaret Young

So this is it you have accessorized the beautiful barista
at the South Side Beehive coffeehouse. Took coffee

in Quality Products Heavy Duty Roller Bearings mug,
stirred in turbinado sugar, patted husky puppy,

sat down to poems, bummed one Camel Wide
from the next table’s long–haired girl, realized

you left coffee at sugar station so got up, passing
the counter where the sassy counter chick

has stuck it behind her pale lovely ear

it gleams against her purplish hair

the plastic purple plum you tipped her with

the ten cent thrift store Made in Hong Kong plum

that today must pass for blossom, blessing.

by Margaret Young

Bite peach, juicing chin.
Shine like that firefly stroking
the screen of night, lit
air quotes winking hey baby,
up here, still up here, now over
here between black maples, black grass.

The diner’s neon sign is green and pink.
Follow the placemat maze, it ends at either lake
or fairgrounds, where you get lemonade
in giant plastic cups with built–in straws:
too sweet if you don’t grab that
yellow hemisphere and squeeze.