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Sunday, April 28, 2024
Jasmine By Hunter Hodkinson
Jasmine Dirt faced and kid smelly, beautifulhow constant pressure spits out a pearl,another holy bead on my necklace of reflection. Jasmine lived down a driveway of gravel and broken glass.The neighborhood slept to the lullabies of her parentscoun…
Dirt faced and kid smelly, beautiful how constant pressure spits out a pearl, another holy bead on my necklace of reflection.
Jasmine lived down a driveway of gravel and broken glass. The neighborhood slept to the lullabies of her parents country music loud enough to drown constant coal trains passing.
I often awoke to red and blue lights outside my window thinking aliens had finally arrived but the next morning, tormented tire tracks proved the only abductee was her innocence.
In summer, Jasmine approached like a stray to our front porch knocking on the door until someone answered.
My poor mother—Popsicle Lady to the Parrish St. children, was hounded relentlessly year after year for twin fructose treasures, leaving red, blue, and green stains down elbows and chins.
Jasmine was a bruised piece of fruit sweet but always black and blue mosquito bites head to toe and feet black as tar.
She ate apples to the core I'd never seen anyone do that. But she always left a little Granny Smith crown at the top by the stem, offering the last bite.
I wish I had said yes. Now everytime I eat an apple I bite my tongue.
By Hunter Hodkinson
Biography:
Hunter Hodkinson is a Non-binary, Appalachian born poet, carving a place for themselves in Brooklyn, NY. They have found a poetic home with Brooklyn Poets, where they work as an Events Assistant. They also find enjoyment as a Reader for The Adroit Journal. Their work can be found in, december, Anti-Heroin Chic, Dream Boy Book Club, Artistic Tribe NYC, and elsewhere.
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