the sacrament parts
from a tongue
a fist opens
to unclenched sheets
somewhere the cleft
in an orange
peel closes
and a thumb
loses the scent
of citrus
water drips up
a swimmer’s chest
with a kind of sadness
which is also a kind
of gratitude
the audience bows
its head
birds fall out
of their stupor
the sweet stink of wisteria
is unbreathed
and purple recedes
it’s not the consummation
song of two coins
planted in a pant pocket
like seeds
that binds us together
but the air
so thick
with anticipation
it changes the light
Joshua Garcia lives and writes in Charleston, South Carolina, where he is pursuing an MFA in poetry at the College of Charleston and is an editorial assistant at Crazyhorse. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Image, Hobart, Bodega, Ruminate Magazine and elsewhere.
Image credit here.