Spoiled in The Writer

A stumbling question
clutched close, beyond the throat
of a quiet room.

A necklace of red grapes,
the sweet collar bone that beckons your kiss.

Your hand, on my back as
I fall heavy into slumber.

Drink my stillness, this gaze held.
Your tongue will ripple the stagnancy of a day, a week, a month.

Your eye is the sun,
my beating heart is the Earth
which circles it without consideration,
you are the only thing it knows.

A constellation of over-ripe situations
fall, falling, plop.

Splitting open without permission,
a mess. Pomegranate seeds and
mango flesh, a cold tile floor.

All fruit bleeds. My chest is full of it.
Stuffed to bursting, a captive cavity.

My head rattles as if empty,
but it is full of
orange rinds and lopped off pineapple tops.

My fingers, blood blister raspberries,
weeping due to worried drumming.

A fruit basket, carefully arranged,
left at your door step, a gift.
Quickly, quickly, before she ruins.

Last updated February 25, 2015