Poem
A Taste of Blue
By: Cynthia Manick
I tell my father about the way
I collect small things in the sacs of my heart— thick juniper berries apple cores that retain their shape and the click of shells that sound like an oven baking.
He presses the mole on my shoulder that matches his shoulder, proof that I was not found at the bottom of the sea.
I also got his feet, far from
Cinderella’s dainty glass slippers— and fingers, too wide for most
Cracker Jack wedding rings.
I read how some mammals never forget their young— their speckled spots, odd goat cries, or birthmarks on curved