by Autumn Koors Foltz

regal crown sour cherry rolls, bigelow ginger or earl.
     pleasure isn’t right if it isn’t cheap.
clouds slick languid tongues thick over hard candy,
     it rains red for months.

what’s the first brand that made cattle cry. in the night,
     their salt licks crystalize bing,
and sweet. in their tender eyes tea steams into the barn
     rafters. let’s go cow-tipping.

let’s write love songs. i sweet dream your constant
     comment. we perfectly mint.
you wonder about my chesapeake. i say nothing
     about the brackish water.

we’re nonsensical, lackadaisical like that. wilting
     off the last year of teenagerdom
into a sticky pool of nameless, sugar syrup. you call
     the shots and i’ll advertise.

when the radio-jingle is written and the sky opens
     everyone will finally understand
the rain was never blood. it was liquid, sick enjoyment.
     let’s commercial. you can shoot.

i keep hiding the sour from the candy. i want to
     remember you not possession-wise,
but for how you looked. your shoulders barn-frame,
     your tongue the estuary i grew up on.

be the farmer that shelters me from the stormfront.
     the cherry flood already kisses
my ankles. branding burning skin to ash. in each
     the four stomachs, a tea bag steeps

until it boils.