Taste

The sunshine hung heavy and thick as lemon curd.
The air was one tall glass of hot tap water.
It dried up my mouth and clung there.
It sat in the back on my throat like Robitussin.

It should have been healing, this breath of hometown air.
It should have tasted like honeysuckles growing by the woods
and the thick smell of tar as it was poured down our road.

It should have lingered on my taste buds like dust from the fields,
been the sharp, sweetness of white corn,
bit the edge of my tongue like Old Bay in a paper-thin cut.

It should have been healing, this breath.
Instead it sits there like remorse, and the sunshine has turned sour.

© Laura A. Lord 2015