Your Earliest Memories May Evoke the Mildest Sense of Synaesthesia

Your Earliest Memories May Evoke the Mildest Sense of Synaesthesia

i grew up in a small farm in población,
the cornstalks competing with sun,
the earth with holy feet.

bore witness to no less than thirty
tragedies-at-sea. at night,
the lighthouse organizes witch hunts along
the shadowy sands and muted cabaret.

i discovered the charm of hair at fifteen;
the power of words a little earlier, when
a girl that eventually broke my heart asked
why i write.

her voice is like rain.

whenever it rains i hear whisperers from
the driven-away of whatever-it-washed.
i could hear rust forming.

on my toes grew tongues that remember the taste
on the surfaces (whenever i bare my feet)
of the snowflakes that patterned their shivers upon them.

— A. P.

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