smell,

the sweat

of how you

bought

a slice from

the market

woman

and brought

it in the

car, how

we couldn’t

roll down

the windows

but had to go

to church

in july

with the king-

of-fruit heat

pressing

against us,

uncontained

like a man

breathing

his armpits

into your

mouth.

salmon eggs

taste like salted

butter, only

sweeter, the consumption

of concentrated

innocence, if you look

hard enough, you see the speck

of orange inside the orange, the fetus

not yet formed, only

imagined, the taste of infant

tongue, the taste

of something not yet

completed.