sour raspberry

i think somewhere
in some corner of my childhood home
tucked away like a mouse door
there must be a gateway
that when i pass through it
makes sparkles on my skin
and i’ll find the summertime
of my memories
when mourning doves sounded off
across bright, warm roads
and dust motes hung in beams of light
and everything felt softer
like the beds of clovers in which i napped
yet also harsher
like the sour raspberry altoids
red and sharp in my mouth
i used to worry about thunderstorms
i used to cry when i woke
to find everyone in the household gone
i want to go back
and watch fireflies with myself
i want to reassure little me
that the mourning dove’s call
may sound eerie,
but there is nothing to fear:
she’s far away
and she’s just as sad as you

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© 2024 nessa jasper