i think a post-mortem is due, he said.
when was it i lost your grip?
your nectarine flesh, smothering mine?
love's touch stopped bleeding,
sweet juices that stick: summer was over.
perhaps we have to revert to before the harvest:
before we ran, barefoot,
as thorns spiked our cotton soles,
through sun-soaked fields of rotting fruit-flesh.
before we were out of season: and the vitamins,
breathed from our sugaring tongues,
were not bitter.
before i bit into another fruit,
(my teeth cut as they hit the stone),
before our fall.
YOU ARE READING
the death of a masculine bible
Poetryanatomy of a love affair: a post-mortem of a nectarine passion, bled dry, stone cracked, as the porcelain of our now lined and weary faces.
