It’s September
when the loquats
tell me winter
is over
They have always
prickled
at my lips,
made them swollen,
made her laugh,
made me wonder
why she stared
so long
It is summer
when the word
jaboticaba
dances
on her tongue
The branches bow to us, heavy
and she goes
on tippy-toes to pluck
each one and throw
them at the skirt
I hold out
like a basket
and when she’s done, she
sinks
her hands
into the dark pile
for the tactile
pleasure, fingers grazing
my thighs, through fabric
Does she know? Does she know? Does she know?
Our fall is sealed
with the pinks
of blackberry that linger
around her smile and run
down her hands
as she slides a finger
across my lips
“It’s like lipstick, see?”
I kiss the thumb hovering
over my mouth
Her eyes widen but she does not move away
I kiss again and again, fingers,
palm and wrist and finally
lips on lips
on
lips
Cecilia Vaz Eller is a Brazilian author interested in writing on otherness, particularly as it relates to different aspects of her identity (queer, immigrant, neurodivergent). She has won the Cidade Poesia Award of Bragança Paulista.