When the grocery store’s white brick looked pink
in sunrises after Hiroshima,
your breasts aped ripe Jamaican mangoes
(in size, color, and texture dead ringers—
oh, I’ve yet to completely eat my fill),
while the reservoirs all around our rooms
couldn’t stop reflecting cargo planes.
William C. Blome writes poetry and short fiction. He lives wedged between Baltimore and Washington, DC, and he is a master’s degree graduate of the Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. His work has previously seen the light of day in such fine little mags as Poetry London, PRISM International, Fiction Southeast, Roanoke Review, Salted Feathers andThe California Quarterly.