the field with its asterisks of blue.
Drips of lavender soft serve on our hands, stacked
boughs of play dough purple. My hands can hold
the way your lips shape the words ice cream, if you still remember
the way petals flower bitter into our tongues.
Memory, its leaves layered like strange, rotting piñata.
I believe your hands crushing through the litter helps.
A field of windbreaker clad toddlers gasp
sugoi as they crack open gachapon action figures. Your
third serving of briny uni at Hakodate morning market as
a grandma hums your favourite studio ghibli song
Your sturdy delight at the white-tailed eagle
mid-flight on your phone Can you believe
I caught that? Your mum's so talented.
Nights where you stare at the single pane
of a forgotten mixing bowl. Violet seeps down
like chromatography, cream weaning
from one ending to the next.