Tonight's Poet Corner: Recline
Recline
by Belinda Roddie
Sit me in a hammock just seven
inches off the ground, and feed me
rum-soaked raspberries by the bucketful
until I'm both sated and inebriated.
By the time the tartness has enveloped
my cerebrum, I'll be far away
on a rickety boat of my own making
with a sail hitched up so high
that not even the wind gods could end
my circumnavigational voyage.
Each berry sits on my tongue
like a welcome guest: Greet it,
shake its hand, offer it a drink. Soon,
it will make itself comfortable in
a foreign abyss, where pomegranate
seeds are symbolic of endless winter,
and surprisingly, autumn actually exists
in our suburban status quo, and a kiss
tastes remarkably of both citrus and elderberry.
by Belinda Roddie
Sit me in a hammock just seven
inches off the ground, and feed me
rum-soaked raspberries by the bucketful
until I'm both sated and inebriated.
By the time the tartness has enveloped
my cerebrum, I'll be far away
on a rickety boat of my own making
with a sail hitched up so high
that not even the wind gods could end
my circumnavigational voyage.
Each berry sits on my tongue
like a welcome guest: Greet it,
shake its hand, offer it a drink. Soon,
it will make itself comfortable in
a foreign abyss, where pomegranate
seeds are symbolic of endless winter,
and surprisingly, autumn actually exists
in our suburban status quo, and a kiss
tastes remarkably of both citrus and elderberry.
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