On My Tongue

it is rains residual

a hiss

from new grown long grasses

chirrups memory

from hoppers of deep discarded

poppy fields

where serpentine it weaves

to bug me

this hissing

inches wince

bringing lips to pucker

here

not for kissing

for these

lost summers breeze through me

from before such things

and as lips

pucker here

reminiscing on the riffing

of acidic drip

fizz in flesh

of lemonade

sold from our makeshift market

i remember

through the haze

and taste again

noxious sugars of childhood

spoiling me

before the taint

of all that poppy seeds

could mean

for the pain

Rick Dove (c) 2016