Aftertaste

Wouldn’t it be nice
to go back; to have that option.
The small garden behind the tapas place
sold wine by the glass and by the bottle.
For us it was the bottle and the uninvidious
grass around us that knew our whole life story
the way the tongue knows aftertaste.
Summer or late spring—what year was it?—
limbs outlaid like fruiting vines in all
that spilled sun and Sunday nothing.
I’m not saying it’ll be the same, the very same
flowerlet types that grew and grow
along the far edge of your time on earth.
No smell goes twice through the same canal
or tastes enter twice a single mouth, but still
wouldn’t it be nice to go back again;
to say I was here once too before
though everything is different now.

B. T. Joy is a British poet and short fiction writer living in Glasgow. He has also lived in London, Aberdeen and Heilongjiang, Northern China. His poetry and short fiction have appeared in magazines, journals, anthologies and podcasts worldwide, including poetry in Yuan Yang, The Meadow, Toasted Cheese Literary Journal, Numinous: Spiritual Poetry, Presence, paper wasp, bottle rockets, Mu, Frogpond and The Newtowner, among many others. His debut collection of poetry, Teaching Neruda, was released in 2015 by Popcorn Press and his 2016 collection Body of Poetry is also available through Amazon. He can be reached through his website: http://btj0005uk.wix.com/btjoypoet.

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