Ghazal of the Cyanide Almond
by Jane Blue

The little cyanide almond exposed inside the peach.
The teakettle whimpering instead of whistling.

The pain of last week is gone. An earthquake has rattled Tokyo.
Someone is mowing, always mowing, slashing the street with their noise.

Before I was twenty I had no memories, knitting them together for later.
Dragonflies circle and tilt away like helicopters.

Or cutting trees, murdering trees, with that hoarse, slicing sound.
Last night a panther poured itself through an upper window in a house on a hill.

I lay on a big bed with a former lover, light slanting in like water.
You say your life is narrow, that there is no adventure in it.

A red geranium peeks from behind the sycamore.
Overheard on a television ad: “You can own a new solar system.”

A black honeybee comes to my pen, drawn by the smell of ink?
One memory grows out of another, like a plant from a seed.

Jane Blue was born and raised in Berkeley, California and now lives with her husband near the Sacramento River. Her poems have appeared or will appear in many print and on-line magazines, She has taught creative writing at women’s centers, colleges and prisons, and privately.

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