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Tamar Yoseloff


Leaves in shadow
lit, sun pooled, denied;
new leaves

purpling to clasp
their flower, flower
bulging to fruit,

sour promise –
pulp smutting
a frosted glass,

a terrace, acid
on my tongue;
the rasp of wasps.

A storm clots
on the horizon, ants march
the parched footpath,

warriors, workers;
rust of old iron,
of blood.

A cloud muscles
small drops of rain,
cold drop

of lemons, puckered
suns (more like moons), fizzing
against the stone wall,

the woodpile
rich with ants,
heavy air.

We promise ourselves
a memory of sun,
buy the postcard.

The lemons are having none
of it. They bask in their gloom,

to be sweet,
leave the residue
of their sticky kiss.



This poem is from Tamar's sixth collection of Poetry 'The City with Horns' published by Salt. Tamar is a regular tutor at the Almassera Vella. Her website is at: http://www.tamaryoseloff.com/


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