remind me how being π’d
from you is so hard to swallow.
sometimes I’d like to be nearer.
An eggplant curled to its stock.
with its head hung low
in feathers. A barnacle bred
body of a blue whale. Not this
half-rotted fruit. Baked. Powdered
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.
the sails. Know how many times
I’ve missed the sandbar with the anchor,
us into the jetty. The juice will drip from
the corner of your lips. I’ll taste them, salty.
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.