Orange blossoms in a blue-glazed bowl

soon shape-shift into dark, inexplicable moods
when sundown presses hard against the mouth.

Sensual air swirls an erotic scent back and forth.
Little wolves of appetite

snarl at the back gate, eyes grow black and lustrous
under half-moon sheen.

Self-destruction’s an art, perfected in blood
and sand-bleached bone.

Sylvia took one look and drew her cool conclusions.
If only she’d red sneakers,

bright stencils to turn the world around.
Something about bees, the ghosts of honey humming

against the swastika-shaped trees, the tiny queen reclining.

Kallima Hamilton studied at the University of Idaho and the University of San Diego. Currently she lives in Michigan, where she’s a literacy tutor. Her poetry has appeared in Mudlark, Sugar Mule and Shenandoah.

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