Magus Season

She turns to go, a handful of blueberry-sized tomatoes
Dried to fruit leather in her palm. It has been, she says,
A magus season, a dust and conjuration front encircles my waist.
She eats a wrinkled tomato, her teeth piercing it. I think
Of insects with prehensile tongues and sharp whines,
Of assassin beetles redder than tomatoes, of dragonflies
Black and white, masked in the colors of no season.

I will be careful of her train, burned along the edges
And spiked with match-heads. Let the fields--the yards--blaze.
Neither I nor the sun will remain as we have been.
Already, I feel the festal blubber. I taste the swelling.
She does look sleek. Thundercloud shadows shimmer
Silver over her skin, flickering upward, purple and pearl,
To a frown. I wait at the edge of the patio. Off the grass.

There will be popcorn, she states. Pauses. Smiles.
Lightning dances in her hair, sparking from strand to belt.
She wants the car. She has processed enough, barefoot,
In this strange season, stomping out dust and conjuration.
I drive her to the pier; evening is glimmering neon.
She hands me a cob; I snatch a paper bag from a gust.
Kernels explode. She walks barefoot down the slats.

I follow, sea breeze drying her asphalt and resin scent
Over my arms, corn steam wreathing my cheeks.
At the edge, sun and water glow more widely
Than the chancy shacks promising a sly magic nearby.
She slips from her wrap as matches ignite, leaping
Dolphin-arched into the ocean. Summer salts my kernels
With her splash as she swims toward the diving sun.

Sharing this week with both the Sunday Muse for Muse #20 and with Poets United for Poetry Pantry #419. This week's poem was inspired by a conversation I had about squash (what am I supposed to do with this UFO...errr...white squash?) and how odd and disappointing the growing season has been. Hoping this week finds you with tomatoes of rare juiciness and flavor & good conditions for writing as well. :) 

-- chrissa