remind me how being π’d
from you is so hard to swallow.
Because
sometimes I’d like to be nearer.
An eggplant curled to its stock.
A goose
with its head hung low
in feathers. A barnacle bred
on the
body of a blue whale. Not this
half-rotted fruit. Baked. Powdered
into cake.
We had something fresh-squeezed,
sugar cold & sun-bleached. A million oranges
in a grove.
I want that juice! But I’ve only two apples.
Us. And for once in my life, cliché
math is aiding me.
Let’s start with those two apples. Take one
away. Now we’ve got one bitter. Me.
Have a bite
of that rancid ship. Swallow it,
port and starboard. Don’t end at the bow.
Digest
the sails. Know how many times
I’ve missed the sandbar with the anchor,
and swooshed
us into the jetty. The juice will drip from
the corner of your lips. I’ll taste them, salty.
My opportunity
to regrow into your parasitic paramour
will have branched. You’ll no longer be gravid.
I’ll spit the seeds
into wet dirt. And nothing will sprout.
in case you can’t tell in this font: in the first line that’s the symbol for pi, not an n or a double T