The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2018

Savor Michael Dubon My sister insists that each tree has a different flavor sap. My cousin and I believe her—chocolate, cherry, gum— The possibilities, inexhaustible. We walk through the woods behind our apartments. We appear as small and lost or small And blind, palming trees under leaf shade, For the promise of a tacky touch. We search for a hidden palate that detects the sweet in every root that grounds us. We dip our fingers into wet sap on brown bark That red ants run across. The sticky stretches, breaks, between our fingers. We can’t detect what our tongues were assured. Is there something born wrong in us— Some seed now sprouted, so deeply rooted To our futures that we are taste blind, and sight blind, And smell blind, and touch blind—our lack of flavor, Indicative of our overripe futures, bursting with taste That will always escape us—mine in the bottom of a bottle, Her in the victimhood of assault. But we try and try, All around that playground, moving with the drive of those ants. Lost and overzealous. Lost and furious. Lost and exhausted. Perhaps we’ll come back tomorrow. Perhaps We’ll come back to the next tomorrow. Perhaps my sister will finally reveal that secret destiny Which our damned tongues cannot divine. 188 The Meadow