Rosemary, That's For Remembrance by Kate Meadows

We spent some hours in the back garden,

in the drained tone of dusk. Everything blue and

smelling callow, leisured trails between

wayward fronds. Toe-ing the cross-hatched dirt,


you & I leaned in close for a whiff, halting

for flowers with puckered edges,

enormous poppies or violet-clusters.

When conversation tapered out, we forked


and drifted. I wavered by the vacant hen-house,

while you stood entranced by some moth’s intricate politics. So we walked our

silent figure-eights, one single cloud

going orange over the furthest roof,

Then: a gift. Finger of rosemary in your palm. Bristled fragrance,

pale braid turning between thumbs.

Pocketed, and carried home, it dried a dark

umber, not unlike a burnt match coveting

its odor. Slight, curious creature of my nightstand’s drawer: a mnemonic.

Kate Meadows is a junior studying Comparative Literature with a minor in Creative Writing. She was born in Warner Robins, Georgia, but has lived most of her life in Chapel Hill. Outside of poetry, she enjoys embroidery and bird-watching.

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