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A shriveled apricot pit passes through a tainted
womb. With resolution it settles in soft clover
And hammers itself slowly into dying life.
Hands like a child touch sun worn skin and
wonder. How many lives have you lived to get
To this one? How many more until you forget
April winds? I wish it was lovers hands
That gently traced up peach fuzzed thighs. No
longer named, no longer held, you are undefined
but the birds shout clearer than ever.
The bark beside you sings in a melody
of shadow and light. Is it longing if you
can’t spell their name? Transitory loneliness
soon to pick up the pen. You are only
marks on thin strips of birch. One
day you’ll drink your fill and
shit out a plum. Bright purple and orange
dripping juice down their cheek, you are
punctured