Canticle of the Penitent Magdalene
by Jennifer Atkinson
Even so the peaches are ripe, their pelts cat’s tongue to my touch.
Even so the fierce poppies tremble.
Even so every night a dense blue like cold stones in my mouth.
Even so death rides the air, flitting and veering like bats, brushing my outstretched
arms, in passing.
Even so I dreamed the dream that Samson dreamed—honey oozed from a skull.
The taste? Like honey. I poured it into my palm and licked.