I remember buying basil
with my mother. At the counter
I swam in time too small
for weekday nets to catch—
where it’s wrists wearing mollusk lips,
bags on hips, soft denim calling
for rectangle touches. And above
where most things matter,
here they don’t—there’s a spider
making spiders in the corner
underneath the cash box—
it’s only what’s for dinner
and how spicy now the air is.
Not, Someday, I’ll grow my own
and I’ll remember all the songs
that we forgot and try to take
you with me—but I will.
In this stratum, in line, at Eden
I can blindly hold the hand
that’s near my ear and smell the day,
before it’s anything more than now.
Adriana Stimola (she/her) is a non-fiction literary agent, mother and writer. Her poetry has been featured in numerous publications, including: the Santa Clara Review, the San Pedro River Review, Driftwood Press, Harbor Review and Soundings East. She was awarded an Honorable Mention in the New Millennium Writings 53rd poetry contest, and she lives on an island off the cape of Massachusetts.
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