Your mother married
the first man she ever kissed.
Thirty three years later,
fit to burst in that same
neon blue shift dress,
she plods herself underneath

the kisses of a Cherry Blossom tree.
She was nineteen and untouched.
The whole village knew it.
She tells you this story –
dwelling in the intimacy of

The overgrown stache
that tickled her top lip

The flutter of his lashes
against her cheekbone

The hand that hovered
around the dents of her back

How he explained
that these dents were deep
enough to bury his past.
How the left one
was deep enough to hold
a well of water. A well
that later that night,
he dipped his tongue into
-baptised – he declared
himself brand new.

Feathered wishes land
on her head. She tilts
when you raise your camera
but only slightly, as though
they are a family –
their picket fence her crown.


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