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.