While the rest of the world turned orange
Our autumns came tropical. Urban box of scorch,
thunder with bated breath. It was the year that
monsoon season overstayed its welcome, a July staple
Worming around September. I didn’t mind that
we trudged outdoors with umbrellas that smelled of juice,
condensed-milk tins for flower-picking, hearty appetites.
Sweet santan nectar on pink-tipped tongue: the honeybee ambrosia.
Drunk on a droplet as children, flowers of yellow and gray
skies. We head home
to the same round of scolding: wet hair, petals on wrists.
