By Kindra McDonald
and the smell of mint is the overgrown garden I grew up with. It is the summer freedom of bike rides, cartwheels and days as long as my noon shadow. The fragrance was the night breeze from my open window, it was a stop on the rural road, reaching high up the vines of the ditch trees to pluck the buds, pinching the calyx and sliding it out of the petal, catching the liquid candy drop on my tongue, one after the other, guilty of stealing from the bees, dizzy with the scent and the buggy hum, knees weak from the men who
hollered out their truck windows, hey girl, you’re growing up fine, come see me tonight.
***
KINDRA MCDONALD received her MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. She teaches poetry at The Muse Writers Center and is an adjunct writing professor and doctoral student. She is the author of Concealed Weapons published by ELJ and Elements and Briars published by Red Bird Chapbooks. She lives in Norfolk, VA with her husband and cats.