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