**tw's: abuse implied, death mentioned**
all seasons have falling leaves, they're
all my old selves—perhaps
not always as old as i think they are—&
in between, in the brief snatches of sky, i
want to see the brightest blue, but
instead i see more of a bruise. i
have broken myself down
too much—tonight—
i do everything with
oranges except eat them. they
say love is in the peeling, is in the
separating of the segments, one by
one
slow & wholesome day at a time.
who will do that for me? with all the
white bits still attached—
i miss her, all too much, & still lie
awake for the feeding. a horse
clips down the street & i have
no apples. just a body full
of warm milk laced with honey
or something else that stings a little, with more
sweetness than i can take. at least it's something
i have tried. i've known of people
to not even do that. i give
them their space. during which
a friend & i spend time together &
afterwards, my calves ache for days.
this is love, the good grit & dirt of
it all. we have bananas &
apricots & we know of each other's pain. lay
on the bed together & after, still
laugh the same. my mother was
wrong about so much. still, i can't see that
oftentimes. i am
on edge & i'm not sure why. i know i lie
awake for the feeding that will not come. see,
both hunger & fullness make my stomach hurt.
i don't talk about this—there are
other fruits to peel—finally, i
allow myself to feel the sticky innards—& then
rosemarie says she is sorry for the feeling
of what might have happened to me, & that
maybe next time i can look her in the eye. i
tell her i'll try—i don't
& all gone is this hold of mine—love is
not made with the body—that
desperation—of pomegranate juice staining
clothes & carpets—of empty perfume
bottles with their scents mixing, lingering—
this life is more longing than belonging
to the years. the afterwards is
easy, no?—the dead only need be dead. no
washing or slicing or anything else. i am
not there yet, my teeth pierce the
blueberries & enjoy it—it's
been several midwinter's evenings where
i have sat inside & heard the leaves blow.
YOU ARE READING
body work
Poetry**for fans of plath, anne sexton & ocean vuong** 'body work' is a captivating collection of poetry that delves into the depths of human experiences, exploring the intricate relationship between the physical body & the emotional & spiritual realms. w...
