copyright © 2005 all rights reserved
Tired of serving as husband
to suffering and skin,
I cough up resistance,
solitude, absence, even especially
When I speak of death,
Iım thinking of sparrows,
of circling wings,
of my own tiny body
like an open beak.
Stooped over the display of sweet stuff
with wide pits, I plow through the piles of soft fruit,
edging my thumb from the shallow slopes
to the hard stem at the end of each mango.
The skin stretched tight (like a baseball),
but seamless somehow,
my thumb gives when I press in
to the satin finish of the fleshy fruit.
Testing the round weight by tossing
the thick skin in my cupped hand,
I savor that gentle smack,
that rise and fall of firm decision.
Last night I stared straight
down the barrel.
swallowed your gun,
flicked the trigger with my tongue,
head cocked to hear you
shudder and soak.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
is a genre-deviant girl living in Asheville, N.C. She writes creative nonfiction and poetry, and she has recently completed a memoir written mostly in prose-poems. Her work also appears online in Sidereality
and Suspect Thoughts: A Journal of Subversive Writing.
She has received a fellowship from Vermont Studio Center. Her current projects include using fashion to stop the spread of HIV and learning Latin in order to translate Catullus.