Fall in the Coffee Cherry

“You have no seasons in that small island of yours,” she says, with a smile that stinks of nurtured ignorance and mirth-rich malice. “That is why your people migrate to our lands, right? Searching for more, wanting better, needing our green Springs and the vivid orange of our Falls? So sad.”

For a fiery moment, I taste her nasty thoughts wanting to crawl into my words. But I magic the flames into a knowing grin—she shan’t pull her rot out of my tongue. And I speak my truth: “In my small island, Fall sleeps in the reds of the coffee cherry. We arouse it awake with our fingers, berry by berry, until our baskets are full of warming cups. We drink October all year long. And so do you. But the taste buds of your spirit are dead. So you fail to notice. So very sad.”

the reddest berries
lose their dresses for the Fall,
to warm coffee cups

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the wee notes…
– All right, so maybe a wee bit of her nastiness touched my pen’s tongue *cough, cough cackle*.
– In the bit of the Dominican Republic where I was born, coffee harvest used to begin in October.
– Linked to Sanaa’s Prompt Nights – Crunching, Crinkling Autumn swirling in the Breeze.

coffee-cherries
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Around My Finger-Bone

Last Saturday, my Piano Man and I went on another first date. Every year, we recreate our first face to face encounter. Our actual first date was in June, but I was too sick last June and we had to put it on hold for a bit. We are so glad we did… The weather was perfect, the pizza was NY-yummy, the ice cream was delicious, and my flesh and bones felt well enough to delight in our long walk through Silver Lake.

“The Beats under My Ribs”

The morning stretches awake to the song of gut and bone echoing of recent pain. My brain wonders if the rest of my flesh is ready for buses and trains riding my spine. I see him smile for me, feel his lips feed me a kiss, and the beats under my ribs say I can do anything.

in sunlight, two hearts
sail the summer-kissed waters
of New York, in love

magaly-and-william-sep-2016

After the ferry took us from Manhattan to Staten Island, we ate and walked to the city park… where we shared our first grope (did I type that aloud?) and where my Piano Man proposed a few years after said grope (I guess I did type it aloud). We visited a bunny that has been living in a tree-house (tree-basket?) for at least five years. Last year, she found a foxy mate. They make such a lovely couple, don’t they?

fox-and-bunny

“Around My Finger-Bone”

His eyes eat a book… His fingers knead relief into the small of my back. The chant of cars on rails lulls me home… I watch silver and dark around my finger-bone ringing a promise made of all my love… From the sky, debris falls like a star. And I wish for nothing.

a black stone with spark
handfasted my witchy heart
to he, who is mine

black-diamond

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a wee note…

– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform)