Hedy Habra

Issue #
April 26, 2020

The Taste of the Earth

Two fawns cross the creek. One of them pauses, linked

to his mirror reflection by the tip of his tongue, parallel

worlds merge on the fault line of a folded image.

A musical phrase sticks to your skin, the wind espouses

ripples, liquid dunes lick the shoreline, give moisture to

wild brush, blown-over seeds and thoughts.

Iridescent hummingbirds hover over purple iris blooms.

The shore is faithful to the stream’s first touch. Like first

love, it nourishes tendrils rising into a green flame,

never forgotten like the taste of the earth. A desert thirsts

for an oasis, a fawn melts into the music of a fable,

a gazelle, new memories map rhizomes twisting,

anchoring us farther with each shoot spreading from our

birthplace to everywhere we’ve lived, to where we live

now, and does it make a difference if the root remembers?

First published by Sukoon Literary Journal From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019

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