|

Desideratum
I rinse apricots, trace the crease in their buttery skins.
Milk-yellow, blush,
fiery gifts. Each fruit an envelope
wrapped around its stone. I rub the scent of Royal
on my thumbs. Slice
fruit into quarter-moons, soak flesh
in rum cool from the cellar. All winter I dreamt of lifting
the bottle
I’d tucked between two rafters, of shattering
glass. Now, the voyage. I hand you a bowl
lined
with festival boats. Not one bruise. God love you
if these are not enough.
Festival Bone, Adastra
Press 2004 FIELD, #67 Fall 2002
Publications List.pdf

|