Genevieve’s Week 3: On Sage

sage

You remind me of glass,
mirror, water, winter,
cold. Hands flutter
bleak shadows on
the wall. The rains
struggle on.  I won’t
send you back the
postcard or the box –

their place is beneath
the bed, within the
linen closet. Your
song may be tender,
but it smokes as
strongly as sage burns.
It stings my eyes like
onion. You remind me

of clay, snake, brittle
leaf, quiet growl. We
have met before, I
think, though it was
years ago. Now the
chicharras do not sing.
They drop to the ground,
tired, and the ice thickens.

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