Poetry tastes like the start of
something new.
It tastes like
the end of something, too
I think.

It tastes like ashes
after the fire, and dirt
after the rain.

It tastes like ink
that courses through your veins
like blood.
It tastes like the words
that pour from your eyes
like tears.

It tastes like horchata
and Jamaica
that your friend took hours to make
just for your birthday.
It tastes like burnt cookies
and failed recipes.

It tastes like crab apples
from the tree outside of your school
that were never meant to be eaten.
It tastes like the sweet berries
that grow on the bushes
outside of your baseball stadium in the summertime
that you pick with your bestfriend.

Poetry tastes like memory,
poetry tastes like hope.