poetry by rina shamilov

Pickings

We can keep our gray Saturday in the crushed apples 
Left behind on the ground 
All that picking we did, my fingers sewn into 
Yours, both hands blood red from the wet macouns 
Your lips taste of those apples, your cold hands 
Jammed between the warmth of mine & the cramped 
Space you’ve reserved in your pockets 
There’ll be another day that leaves its 
Print there, but let me have this one

Let our lips stay glued together for a little 
While longer, just 
Till the apples ripen some more 
& the fog settles into the hood of your coat 
Let the dent my lips leave be as warm 
As the sweetest blood, and just as familiar 
Your sweat tingling along the vein in my palm 
I’m not as cold anymore 
Come November, I may be sweltering yet 
From all the warmth your hands loan mine 
& from the breaths our lips release to the clouds