by Jemma Leigh Roe
the way moves through streets
heat-stained i breathe
the stagnant fumes—
man’s greed, a mane of smoke—
unfed by the craving
of mammon
my own hunger withers
on a fruitless vine
while truth blooms
in the jacaranda my mother
grew. be my mother.
my mother has died. i have only
her beads, not her strong hands
or long black hair
the scent of
hyssop and jasmine.
the life she had
waters this garden
where i eat from every tree.
in the blood orange, i taste
that i am
a rivered mouth
overflowing
like a riot, a prayer, a shudder.
Jemma Leigh Roe has poems and artwork appearing or forthcoming in Sonora Review, Fugue, The Journal, Lunch Ticket, Tupelo Quarterly, and other publications. She received her PhD from Princeton University.