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Honey Dusk Do Sprawl.

Berryman
 HONEY DUSK DO SPRAWL
 When the tulip tree's all damseled out in violet, when I
can't pass
 a stray window without
 hungering into its mirror, I check to see if I'm still
 myself. When I'm the girl who daydreams
 her own funeral, then asks you about the salivary
 habits of ponies, that hissing Shetland,
 Princess, muzzles up, gray-lipped,
 from your mother's childhood. When her preacher father
 found only the full sink's grimy porcelain, he'd pour the
cobalt vase
 half full with Jack Daniel's, and a few
 dried forsythia rinds plumped
 back yellow. He'd weave through the kitchen,
 and she'd escape to the barn, until her palms
 ran with brown sugar. Tulip tree-wise, honey, we might be
 safe for the season. The face of the childhood pony always
 torqued for coarse sugar--a bluntness
 to the need, like trying to read someone's
 lips in a dream. A hiss that rolls
 all the way here. Outside, the wind-raved date palms
 walk their razors with the sound. 
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Article Details
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Author:Journey, Anna
Publication:Shenandoah
Article Type:Poem
Date:Dec 22, 2009
Words:216
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