By Teneice Delgado

I dreamed of licking blackberry
juice from my wrists and the lips
of a young boy; summer sun teasing
freckles from our skin, slick sweat
and the flies couldn't deter the slipping
of shorts and tank tops from spangly
limbs, but my mother's voice was the whir
of locusts in that overgrown field.
I awoke listening for the buzz.

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