by Joanne Epp

Tea in a dark-green tin: bergamot scent of Earl Grey
with something more, a hint of smoke.

That’s the one. The tea from the train
to Moncton—remember?—where we met
the musician, that long-legged clarinetist,
blond bangs falling in his eyes, who chattered
about symphonies and shoes and England,
who shook his hair aside and offered us tea,
a dark-green box pulled from his pack,
who beckoned us along to fetch hot water
(matching our stride to the coach’s rocking)

             —one whiff
of smoky bergamot and it’s present again,
that eastward trip with you: settling into motion,
hefting backpacks down from luggage racks,
first glimpse of coastline and ocean blue,
wandering new streets in search of sandwiches
and a laundromat—not the things we kept
and called souvenirs, but those that slipped
into memory’s inner pocket, where only chance
could find them.

— from Juniper Volume 2, Issue 3