I am still discovering all the flavours of you: as though I am witch, learning to identify which parts to pluck, under what circumstance what will brew into soothing tea what spice will lead to delirium today you are sharp and salt- brined, dark and bitter coffee, stained with red dust hallucinogenic, transporting as though we are on a crystal beach not quite as green as your eyes. Tomorrow a mother will come, beg tonic for her daughter, and I, jealous will not give them your early buds the ones that taste like home, that my tongue is more practiced at clinging to, the one that can slip down sweet fire and soothe crying babes instead, I give the analogue, generic the cinnamon she has always known the mint and bergamot to soothe the last of it. Then I will find you in the forest again, slake my need with discovery, find new sweetness bringing the full flower of your petals to my lips, again.
Lynne Sargent is a writer and philosopher from Hamilton, ON. When she is not writing she performs circus with Steel the Sky Aerial Arts. You can find more of her poetry existent or forthcoming through Strange Horizons, Wild Musette, and Polar Borealis and find her philosophical writings online at moralguillotines.wordpress.com.