September Aftertaste

I remember this time last year
as a dilation of daylight—
slow and a little too bright and hot—;
warm soupy midnight air
a smattering of stars in a black sky

I remember it in poetry
—the way others’ words taste in the back of my mouth
the gathering of myself
all ruffled edges and slippery cheesecloth
trying to feel the way it fits together on the inside
the way I fit together from the inside

The words still leave the same aftertaste today

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