Meredith MacLeod Davidson

Queen’s Park

Astronauts have described space as smelling
of gunpowder, seared steak, rum, raspberries.
Remember your tongue knows texture
tree bark: a coarse sepia wound.

Daffodil scabs wither to crisp
tissue off their own hollow necks
I miss the yellow, the turn of face,
to sun or storm or my own am I

to synthesize something here, staring
to sky light eye light overwhelmed
to the point of osculation: silver
discs about my sight—surely

buttercup sprigs should not reveal
themselves? A rusted signage hints
at something once identified, blank now.
When did you learn lavender was a color

for you? At sixteen, folk could tell you
needed something to feel good
about. There’s not enough scent
in poetry—foaming fervor, scuffed

jade blades, I cannot pronounce.

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Meredith MacLeod Davidson is a poet and writer from Virginia, currently based in Scotland, where she recently earned an MLitt in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow. Meredith has poems in Propel Magazine, Cream City Review, Frozen Sea and elsewhere. She serves as senior editor for Arboreal Literary Magazine.