On a Sunday

I have suspected all along that I would forget you.
When pressing the water out of a teabag. When a hummingbird
slips its head in a fuchsia flower and pees a silver thread as it exits.

When following a path along the bluffs to a cypress
worn in the wind-shape of clinging to the cliff.
The edge is the edge in memory, too.

A few years after a dear friend died, I remembered
the way he carried a smile halfway across his mouth,
never sure until he laughed if it was a joyful hour.

Vista points are always on roads that need to let us out
so we know when to rest, when to pause.

Just this morning I selected two apples from the grocer’s bin
having forgotten the prophecy of bees serenading the rot.
Where is the orchard, I loved you in?

Once a long time ago I picked the best apples right out of the tree,
dropping them in the fold of my skirt.

Then I sat beside your pond eating them one at a time
until I was so full, I had to lay back and laugh.
Yes, I am still full.





Amber Flora Thomas is the author of three collections of poetry: Eye of Water, which won the Cave Canem Poetry Prize; The Rabbits Could Sing; and most recently, Red Channel in the Rupture. A recipient of the Dylan Thomas American Poet Prize, the Richard Peterson Poetry Prize, and the Ann Stanford Poetry Prize, her poetry has appeared in Orion Magazine, Colorado Review, and Tin House, as well as numerous other journals and anthologies.

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