Apricot Season

At the edge of apricot season, bellies flailing.
The people starve for tangy fruit at its peak
all dolled up for the corner store, swept clean.
You send out a mayday, with no minute
at wrist to wonder the receiver. The
whole town’s undone. Stripped of that
time of year. Gone is the good condition.
Few are the souls basking in glory. But you
spring the ripest down the road without
a trace, finger-licking.

***

Janelle Solviletti lives in Boston, Massachusetts. Her poems have appeared in Horn Pond Review, The Feathertale Review and The Somerville Lyrical. Janelle is the author of two self-published poetry collections, Euphony (2021) and The Cameo (2020). For more, visit: https://www.janellesolviletti.com 

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