is taste not scent,
memory pulling
a blossom apart:


how we craved
the green edge of it,
scouted branches


in June, walked
barefoot, our clothes
sour with seawater.


We pissed in the ocean,
let our burns peel,
as we searched our


bodies for ticks, fat
with blood, bursting.
Found seaweed


tangled in creases,
as we pried off
bathing suits under


rust tinged showers
of well water,
counted the spider


bites, ran our hands
over the soft fat
of thighs, built


constellations of ache.

Maggie Bailey

Maggie Bailey has poems published or forthcoming in The Southern Poetry AnthologyVolume V: GeorgiaTar River, Tinderbox, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Bury the Lede, is available now from Finishing Line Press. For more work, please visit here.