Metanoia

Metanoia

Caroline Liberatore

A gust, and it’s the flavor of nectar
suckled off my stained childhood

fingers after mulberries. The scent redolent
of sun-soaked trees, shedding and seeping

sap, berries, eager saplings; every cycle
of death and metanoia. The breeze tickles

honey lace down my arms, resuscitating
every delighted nerve ending and beginning

to recall what succulency I once pulsed with.
Perhaps the treasured cardboard-kingdom reveries still breathe

oxygen evergreen, and if I just inhale more deeply,
my lungs will burst, young and kaleidoscopic.

---

Caroline Liberatore
Poet & Library Worker

Caroline has also been published in Ashbelt Journal. Find more of her work on Instagram (@carolinemlib) and at carolinelib.wordpress.com.

Photography by Marek Piwnicki