SPARK

It rises up to the porch,

ripe and hot

trombones and swaying hips.

–

I watch and listen,

tucked away

behind hollow squares

framed by wood blistered

by southern months.

–

It asks me to come out,

to slide through the screen

to see something new

and let go of the figs

pressed in my hand.

–

I feel the stomping now

falling in line,

slipping under my bare feet.

—

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